Bloodlines
by Phantom Nini
Summary: Altaïr, Ezio, Connor, and Desmond are all ripped from their respective lives and thrown into the Animus Mainframe where a mysterious voice pairs them off and ships them into each other's worlds where they can all, hopefully, synchronize with one another's blood.
1. Mainframe

**A/N: This is something I was originally going to set as a single oneshot, but then my fingers decided to type more than expected, which got my brain to pumping ideas for a bunch of stuff!**

**I apologize NOW if my updating patterns are not to your standards, but, hey, gotta live with what ya got, right? **

**So, here you go!**

* * *

Desmond grasped the concept of it all, yet his head literally throbbed simply thinking of said concept. It wasn't too confusing or elaborate; it just fucking hurt.

The Bleeding Effect was something that no one wanted to experience. It brought confusion and delusional thinking to its victims, and apparently he was one of them.

Ever since he had been abducted by Abstergo and forced to relive the life of his ancestor, Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad, he had the same ability to tap into a unique sixth sense called Eagle Vision. This vision allowed him to see the "unseen," so to speak. It enabled him to know the whole truth without anyone else knowing so, and Desmond had his kicks with this little fact.

It also creeped him the fuck out.

He would simply walk down a hallway or something, and suddenly, a phantom horse would be staring into his eyes as if it were really directly in front of him. Of course, it _did_ look real. Desmond could actually feel the presence of _something _there with him, but as he would reach out in an attempt to check his sanity—or insanity—it would disappear, which didn't help matters in the slightest.

This was referred to as the Bleeding Effect. Then mass delusions and confusion that had become a part of a healthy breakfast—only for him that was. Since no one else went into the Animus—and he knew of no other Subjects that were even _alive_—he was the only one that suffered from the apparitions. Well, technically, the apparitions never exactly bothered him; they just appeared at the weirdest times.

Like, for instance, one time when he just wanted to take a damn piss in the bathroom in privacy, some woman dressed in rags from Acre decided to beg for money. Needless to say, that scared the piss right out of him. Literally.

But Desmond didn't always _suffer_ from them. Sometimes they _did_ help. For instance, when he and Lucy were attempting to find a way into the Auditore Villa _without_ using the front gates, he witnessed the passing of townspeople when the Templars attacked Ezio after he returned from Rome's Vault. Desmond was even fortunate enough to see the Florentine Eagle himself, for he apparently came back later in life.

Desmond knew that this unintentional gift was fortunate to have, but it also fucking sucked. People looked at you crazy, and it wasn't something to take lightly.

And at the moment, it hurt for him to breathe, blink, and even think.

He didn't know why; it hurt to think of _possibly why_ he hurt. He wasn't about to risk having a stroke or hemorrhaging from it all. He knew that it stemmed from the Bleeding Effect—or it could even be from Juno's influence a while back.

Whatever the case may have been, he knew that he usually didn't experience it, and he really wanted it to stop.

"Fuck," he muttered as he slowly rolled to his side.

"Desmond?" Rebecca Crane asked, kneeling down beside the fellow Assassin. "Are you okay?"

He couldn't answer. It hurt to damn much.

"Uh, Shaun?" the woman called, panic rising in her voice. "Something's wrong with Desmond. I had to pull him out of the Animus because his vitals were fluctuating frantically, and he might be on the verge knocking himself into another coma."

The British Assassin crossed his arms as he paced the floor beside her. "What do you think it is?" he asked as Desmond's father, William Miles, approached them.

William stroked his chin in thought as he watched Desmond's vital signs on the monitor beside the Animus.

The numbers on the screen were spiraling upwards, then downwards with absolutely no pattern to them. His heart rate sped as his respirations declined. Then they reversed. His blood pressure would rise, dangerously close that of a heart attack, and then it would decline as he seemed to run a fever. It all had no rhyme, and none of them knew a definite reason.

Desmond moaned as his brain seemed to rip in two. His head pounded as if he was being assassinated by a shitty novice who kept missing the Goddamn kill spot. "Shit!" he hissed in agony as the others merely stared at him.

They couldn't possibly know what to do.

Desmond tried to tell them all what was wrong, but the words just could not form. They only passed through his teeth in growls, snarls, and moans of agonizing pain, as if it was some poor creature dying.

"What do we need to do?" Rebecca questioned to no in particular as she ran diagnostics. "His vitals aren't stabilizing, and if we just sit here, he could stroke, knock himself out, or have a heart attack."

"What's behind curtain number four?" Shaun Hastings inquired, his voice thick with his signature sarcasm.

"Shaun!" Rebecca snapped. "This is serious!"

"We could put him back into the Animus, perhaps?" William proposed without the slightest emotion.

"N—o," Desmond whispered through his gritted teeth. "N—ot th—at."

"Well, son," his father began with a hint of condescension, "it's not like we have a lot of options here. It looks to me that you'd survive that way. We've tested the theory of—"

The man in pain tuned out his father's useless words. Sure, they'd put him under before—right after he killed Lucy through Juno's influence to be precise—but he was out cold then. He wasn't in pain. He was dead to the world around him and was living the life of a middle-aged Ezio in Constantinople—one that was toned down from previous sessions at that. No sessions of whores or drunken fights for him that time, no siree Bob.

His body seemed to be ripping in half as he laid there in the Animus. The skin felt as if it was peeling from his muscles and being discarded by Buffalo Bill or something. His forehead broke into a sweat, and the sweat felt like the blood from the gash in his brain. It slowly ran down his face and soaked his hoodie, and the arguing in the background among the three Assassins faded into nothingness.

Everything suddenly became quiet, and his head began to calm down.

Desmond sighed in relief as the pressure in his head melted away. He stood from his reclining poison and he deemed it safe enough to open his eyes, expecting to see three familiar faces.

And, boy, did he.

"Desmond!" a deep Italian voice greeted warmly. "I am glad to see that your pain has subsided!"

Arching his brow, Desmond slowly nodded. "Uh, yeah. Me too."

The man, who appeared to be in his late thirties, wrapped his arms around him in a brotherly embrace. "It is wonderful to have you back, brother."

"Great to be back, I guess?" he replied, eyeing the other two men, who stood rather awkwardly behind the Italian.

"So you are the 'Desmond' of whom Ezio spoke," one acknowledged as he twiddled his thumbs. "I figured the man spoke of a friend who had passed earlier in his youth."

The Italian pulled away from the embrace and turned to the young man who spoke. "Ah, Connor," he began placing his hand on the Native's shoulder, "Desmond is the man the spirit spoke of in the Vault."

The Native narrowed his eyes at Ezio's hand and shrugged it away. He crossed his arms as he shifted his weight from on leg to the other, adding nothing more to his end of the conversation.

"Why has his existence been unknown to me until this moment?" the third inquired with all seriousness.

"Altaïr," Ezio began with a charming smile, "that is something that even I do not know."

"It is obvious that your 'extensive' knowledge upon his presence—nay his _existence_—is lacking." The man stepped forward quickly, shoving the Italian out of his path. He peered at the youngest Assassin and narrowed his eyes. "What is your purpose? Why have you appeared?"

Desmond cleared his throat as he slowly stepped away from the Syrian Eagle. "I'm not sure, exactly. Uh, my purpose, I suppose, would be to rid the world of Templars, and I have appeared because, uh…"

The Syrian closed the gap between them, his nose practically touching Desmond's. "If your alibi of eradicating Templars is true, then why are you here? Why are you not doing as you say you do?"

"Altaïr," Ezio warned, "There is no reason to frighten him. I believe he speaks the truth."

Altaïr loomed over the new arrival and snarled, which was more dramatic than his appearance in the Animus. He stepped away and stood from the others.

Connor, who simply watched and observed, said nothing as Ezio stepped toward the strange newcomer.

"I honestly don't know why I was brought he—wait. Where am I in the first place?" Desmond looked around and saw nothing but white surrounding him.

Surely this was the work of the bleeding effect. It _had _tobe.

But if he were experiencing that, he'd still be in tune to his reality, not his ancestors.

What if…

Surely he wasn't in the Animus, was he? It sure didn't look like he was on Animus Island again, but then, where was he? Where did the pain in his head run off to? Where did the three quibbling modern-day Assassins hide?

For all he knew, his three ancestors that stood in front of him—and whaddaya know, _they_ were quibbling—were Rebecca, Shaun, and his own father in… robes?

That didn't sound plausible.

Yet, how did any of this sound even remotely plausible? He was conversing with Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad, Ezio Auditore da Firenze, and Ratonhnhaké:ton, AKA Connor Kenway.

Desmond scratched his head in confusion as he repeated his question to the three elder Assassins. "Where the fuck am I?"

Ezio cocked his brow. "You are with us."

"But where is _that_? Sure, I'm _here_ with you, but where _are_ we?"

"You are all in the Animus Mainframe," a voice echoed matter-of-factly.

The four Assassins quickly whipped around, expecting to find an owner to the voice. Instead, they found nothing except more questions.

"Who are you? What is it that you want with us?" Connor demanded the voice, a tic working through his jaw.

Clearly, he was determined to find answers whether anyone liked it or not.

"I am merely a voice in all this—am I right? I am simply a mere person to help you four—a _guide_—if you will." The voice chuckled. "I presume you all are confused upon why you have been called forth, correct?"

"Thank you ever so much for pointing that out, Captain Obvious," Desmond remarked, his voice thick with sarcasm. "You deserve a gold star for your achievement in obvious observance!"

The voice seemed to find the sarcasm amusing. "Oh, now, Desmond, that's no way to speak to the only person that knows what the hell's going on here, now is it? I figured that you'd mix whatever drink was possible from the alcohol available, not order a new shipment." The voice gave a long sigh. "I guess I'll just keep my information to myself and let you all figure it out together."

Desmond emitted a low growl in his throat. "Clay? Are you shitting me? Get the fuck out here and explain what the fuck is going on!"

The voice clicked in derision. "Oh, Desmond, you have always amused me. You realize Clay's been dead for a while, right? I'm not Clay, Subject 16, or anyone of the sort. As I have explained before, I am merely your guide out of here, and I expect that you will all play nicely."

"And if all goes awry?" Altaïr questioned, anger slightly rising in his voice.

"Well," the voice began, a smile of sinister intentions audibly heard, "I guess you four would love to become permanent residents of this never-ending plane on the border between fantasy and reality."

Connor stepped forward, as if speaking for the group. "What would you have us do?"

"You four really want to get out? Go back to your lives as if everything is normal? If I helped you all get out of here, you could all have the life that you should have led. Your lives could be how everything should have been.

"Altaïr, your father could be saved. You wouldn't have to join the Order at the young age of _eleven_.

"Ezio, your father and brothers could be cleared of all false accusations and be set free. You wouldn't have to suffer the loss of your family.

"Connor—or I should say _Ratonhnhak__é:ton_—your village could never burn. Your mother would never be ripped from your practically infantile life.

"And Desmond, you could have the parents that you've always dreamed of. You could live life _outside_ The Farm. Go to school like a normal child of the world. You would never be abducted by Abstergo, and you wouldn't have to know about Assassins or Templars.

"None of you would ever have to lay your hands on another soul for peace between the two organizations. You would never have to rip a soul from the body of a betraying man again. You would know nothing of the pain you hold in your very souls at this moment.

"Your lives would be as they were meant to be," the voice concluded.

The Assassins fell silent.

They would all be free. No Templars. No Assassins. Their lives would be normal. They would never have to kill anyone for any reason.

Connor shook his head, turning to the others. "No, I do not think it wise."

The three other men's mouths dropped. They allowed their jaws to hang open, and their eyes widened.

Ezio closed his mouth and dragged his hands across his face. He then placed his index and middle fingers on each hand on his temples. His brow cocked, he worked a tic through his jaw. "How is that _not_ wise? Are you mad? Do you _enjoy_ the feeling of a man's blood in your hands? The sound of his last fleeting breath withering away at your feet? The derogatory insults in your face as you simply walk the streets? The constant lookout for guards as you infiltrate a Templar lair? Do you truly enjoy the life of a ruthless killer, Connor?"

The young man in question shook his head, his arms crossed at his chest. "No, I do not. I loathe the work I endure. I loathe the burden of countless lost souls from my hands and blade. I loathe the simple truth that I am notorious in my ruthlessness." Connor grimaced. "But if I were not at blame, some other poor soul would be in my position. It is one not for the light of heart. I could easily be the unintentional target of another's blade! You seem to let this truth slip thought as you carry on fantasy of what could have been. If it hadn't been for the burning of my village, I would not be the man I am today."

Desmond couldn't help but see his point. It was true, none of them would have to live this life, but someone else would have to. And who knows? Each one of them might have been the common casualty from the Templar invasions. They would not be alive as they were now—well, as close to it at the moment.

The voice found Connor's realization somewhat amusing. "I must say, Connor," it began with a note of surprise, "I am impressed. You are much more intelligent that the Templars give you credit. And here I sat, thinking that no one would ever pick up on that." It seemed to ponder for a moment. "The path that I lead you all down is one of unity. The blood from each of you all stems from the same source, and you all need to realize that. You all must complete objectives that concern with one another.

"Ezio and Connor, you two will learn from each other first then Desmond and Altaïr. Then you will all pair up with someone else and so on and so forth." The voice explained. "By the end of this ordeal, you will all see differently."

And with that, one by one, the Assassins collapsed to the ground, dozing into a forced sleep by whatever ran the show.

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**A/N: And there's chapter one! **** I hope you enjoyed the sarcasm that I implemented! **** Also, if you understood the couple of references, I love you. Feel proud. **

**If there are any questions, comments, concerns, you can drop a review by typing your opinions in the little box below! Feel free to PM me if your opinions are something you want only me to see! **

**Thank you for flying Phantom Nini Airlines! Have a great and smiley day! :3**


	2. A Connection of Sorts

**A/N: And here's the first lesson for the Assassins to get back to their lives! I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had fun writing it! (Seriously… I had the MOST FUN EVER while writing the amazing awkwardness and plot twists in this chapter!)**

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Connor's head throbbed as he slowly sat up. He groaned in pain as he forced his eyes open, finding himself underneath glorious, linen bed sheets. He noticed his robe hanging on the back of a chair and his boots beside it.

He rose from the bed and shivered slightly as he crossed the stone floor barefoot. The room was cold, and the fire in the hearth simply glowed with dull embers.

He picked up his robe and noticed something that would have gone by unnoticed…

His pants had been hanging underneath his coat and shirt, which meant…

Looking down, the Native's face instantly heated, and he could feel the heat flee to his face.

"Are you ready?" a soft voice purred in his ear, startling him and causing him to jump. The owner of the voice giggled softly as an index finger lightly trailed down Connor's spine, making him shiver.

The young man's eyes widened as he slowly turned his head…

A woman around his age stood slightly behind him, her hair long enough to cover her breasts. She smiled as she noticed his embarrassment. "Oh, don't worry, baby," she whispered as she wrapped her arms around his waist, beginning to lead him back to bed. "I'll take good care of you."

"Who are you?" he asked as she set him down atop the mattress. "What do you want?"

She smiled. "I am your slave to do with what you please. I want you to dominate me like the powerful man you are," she purred as she crawled beside him, her tongue outlining his ear.

He scrambled to get away from the woman, knocking her over in the process. He quickly yanked on his trousers and boots and sped from the room with his other belongings in tow. He pulled on his shirt and overcoat while taking weapon inventory in his mind, which proved pointless, for he only possessed his cutlass, hidden blades, and dagger. No smoke bombs, no trip mines, no rope darts. Nothing other than the bare essentials—not that he needed more than that. If he was capable of killing Redcoats with only his bow and stone tomahawk, then his steel would be more than enough.

Working an irritated tic in his jaw, Connor knew at once that he needed to find the Italian.

Connor took in his surroundings and realized he had to be in a public building—an inn, perhaps? Multiple couples breezed by his stationary being in the hall, going to their own independent rooms. Connor watched as the men were generally led into the rooms by the women, who strangely enough, all wore similar provocative garb.

Dismissing the thought, he began treading up the hall when one of these women stopped him.

"Oh, sweetie," she purred with a deviant grin, "I thought you were with Rosa."

Connor shook his head. "No, I was not. I do need to find someone, if you are willing to aid me."

The woman giggled. "Why, of course, darling. I'll help you."

"Thank you," Connor replied as the girl attempted to lead him into a room. "Ah, you misread me. I am looking for a man named Ezio. Have you seen him?"

The girl deadpanned. "I see." She crossed her arms and furrowed her brows. "I _may_ have seen him. He comes in here twice a week nowadays—pun intended."

Whatever the joke was flew over Connor's head as he urged for the girl to tell him where the other man was.

The woman shifted her weight from one leg to another, and she _hmph_ed. Pointing to a door towards the back of the hall, she sighed. "You'll find him through there, but be careful, he… tends to be a while." She looked into Connor's eyes as she arched her brow. "Are you _sure _you don't need _anything_ else? Not even a little tart?"

"I will have to pass on sweet pastries for today," he assured. "I just need to get him and leave."

The determined Native headed down the hall to the door. He leaned into the wood and concentrated on the noises from within.

"My God!" a girl's voice gasped as he heard the distinct sound of the Florentine Eagle's low chuckle.

"Belladonna," he began a few moments later as the sound of his feet hit the floor reached Connor's ears, "our time together was something I think I will remember for a long while as I fight the tyranny that is injustice. I will look forward to more time soon, but I am afraid that I must leave."

Connor stood back from the door and leaned against the opposite wall with his arms crossed.

A moment later, Ezio Auditore swaggered from the room with a large, toothy grin plastered onto his face. The girl behind him smiled at the wolf and gave him a wink. The eagle locked eyes with the wolf and arched his brow.

"How long have you stood there?" he asked, quickly regaining all composure.

Connor shrugged. "Only but a moment or so."

"Ah," Ezio replied as he motioned for the other man to follow him out of the building in silence.

Connor took in his surroundings once more and knew he was far from Boston or New York. "What is our location?"

"_Firenze__, amico_. We are in Florence, my friend."

He led them down a few streets and stopped upon a bench, promptly sitting down. The other Assassin joined him.

"So, tell me this," Connor began, "where were we a moment ago?"

Ezio smiled at the young man's curiosity. "We were in my favorite _bordello_, where there are plenty of women to bed and spend time with." With a grin, he glanced at the other's face. "Tell _me_. How was yours?"

Connor's brow shot up quizzically. "What do you mean?"

"Um," Ezio gave a nervous laugh. "Did the courtesan do her job well?"

Connor did not respond verbally. His face remained in a confused contortion, and instantly, Ezio knew the truth.

And he laughed. Hysterically.

"You mean to tell me that… No, it is not possible." He studied the man's face, and after a moment, began laughing once more.

"What is your problem?" Connor asked, confused as ever as Ezio clapped him on the shoulder.

"You've never bed a woman, have you?" Ezio questioned as his hand received a dagger-stare. "I can't believe that you have my blood in your veins, and you have never fucked a girl."

To Connor's own dismay, he could feel his cheeks tinge slightly with heat. "And what is your point, exactly?"

"That's what I am going to teach you. That is our first step back to our own lives."

Connor sighed. "You can't possibly mean—"

The Florentine man grinned devilishly. "Ah, but I do. You are going to learn to fuck a woman, Connor."

"You can't be serious," Connor reasoned as he could feel the slight tinge of embarrassment on his cheeks. "Why will you waste valuable time teaching me _that_ when you could teach me skills that will prove useful?"

"But bedding a woman is one of the most useful skills there is, _amico_!" the Italian countered. "If you can bed the finest women in the land as I have, you will reap the rewards like a king!"

"Or I can reap in the diseases of trollops," Connor muttered.

Ezio chuckled at the young man's naïveté. "You are wrong, _amico_. You will see soon enough what this Mentor can teach you."

* * *

Connor felt like an _idiota_, as Ezio so liked to call him for disobeying, walking the streets alongside his "Mentor." He felt out of place and just… awkward.

He had seen Ezio saunter up to countless women again and again, charming them instantly with his ravishing good looks and gleaming smile—all for demonstration, mind you. Ezio would then return to the learning pupil, asking him to attempt the feat of charming a woman.

Whenever the Mentor asked his pupil to display what he had learned, the pupil failed miserably. His words would catch in his throat, or his demeanor would seem insincere and crude.

Growling in frustration, Connor leaned against the wall of a brick building.

Ezio smiled at the man's self-loathing. He remembered a time when he was afraid to simply walk up to a girl and say even the slightest and smallest word, fearing embarrassment. He remembered learning from his older brother all of the tricks in gathering and charming ladies, and he realized his tricks may not work for the brooding wolf.

Connor needed to catch his own prey with his own bait.

Ezio joined the man with a smile. "I see you've bed as many women as I have," he remarked sarcastically.

The Native narrowed his eyes at the Italian. "I see that you've been a _wonderful_ mentor," he countered coolly. He casted a heavy sigh as he closed his eyes. "I honestly don't think that I am cut from the same cloth as you."

"As much as you may doubt, you are," Ezio assured him. "It takes time, skill, and perspective to accomplish what I am asking." He gave a warm brotherly smile, one that he himself had gazed upon as he was in Connor's exact position. "Let me tell you something that may help."

The man recounted his earlier troubles with women to Connor, who merely listened with no noticeable facial expressions. He remained silent as Ezio's tale began to become simply too humiliating to even listen to, but he never changed expressions. Instead, his cheeks varied from normal to flaming embarrassment by merely imagining some of the unfortunate results of Ezio's countless crusades.

Ezio gave an uncomfortable laugh. "So, you see, Connor," he continued, giving the Native a sideways glance, "it's all about delicacy, grace, and your own skill—whatever that may be. I had to hone my charisma and charm, which may not be your strong suit."

Connor nodded, soaking all of this information into his mind. He knew that everything took practice, especially hunting wild game on the Frontier. Was bedding a woman the same tactic? Lay out bait and a swift end? Seemed easy enough, but it just didn't seem to set into motion well.

The two men settled into a silence as the sun began setting. Ezio motioned for the descendant to follow him.

Connor's arms remained crossed as he shuffled behind the eagle.

As they wound through back alleyways, Connor made a mental map in case he ever needed to return to this place—not that he intended to. He rotated his shoulders nonchalantly as Ezio led him into the unknown.

The duo passed a woman who was leaning against a wall, minding her own business. Paying her no attention, the Assassins moved onward.

Then she shrieked.

Connor whipped his head back, witnessing a cloaked figure whisk her away as she flailed and struggled to escape him. Connor knew exactly what had to be done, and he turned sharply around, his feet pounding on the paved street. Catching up to the fiend quickly, he activated his hidden blades, which turned into two hand knives.

He pounced on the man, slashing at him. The man grunted in pain as he dropped the woman on the ground and faced the Assassin. Connor steadied his stance and slowly shuffled to his left, watching his opponent intently. His opponent drew a sword and began to swing. Connor avoided the swing with a quick side roll lunged at the man from the side, plunging his blades into the man's lungs. The man dropped his sword and bugged his eyes, his breath fleeting from him.

Connor eased the man down as he died and then turned to the woman. "Are you alright?" he asked, holding his hand for her to lift herself up.

The woman smiled and took his hand, easing herself up. She dusted her dress off and folded her hands on her stomach. "I appreciate your actions, _Ser_."

Ezio, who had watched the entire scene unfold, eyed his progeny closely as he leaned on a wall not far from them.

"It was no trouble," Connor insisted as she began walking towards him.

"I don't know how I could repay your heroic deed," she admitted with a gleam in her eye as she stopped directly in front of him. "Maybe I could take your mind off your troubles?" she suggested, unfolding her hands and trailing her index finger from his bicep to his forearm, making him tense.

The woman noted his reaction and smiled. "You're not like most of the _bastardi_ in this city, are you?" She giggled softly. "Better yet," she began as she placed her hand over his heart, feeling it quicken. "You aren't like _any_ man I have ever had the displeasure of associating with." She studied his face a moment before she giggled softly once more. "You are a pure man, are you not?"

Connor arched his brow slightly, feeling heat creep slowly up his neck. "I do not understand."

The woman smiled. "And that is why you are pure. You have the heart of a pure soul, one that has not been tainted by the temptation of foul deeds." She looped her arm around his, facing forwards and began to walk with him away from the scene. "You have a kind heart," she continued, glancing at her savior. "You aid those in need and expect nothing in return, do you not?"

He slowly shook his head as they passed Ezio's nonchalant form. He made eye contact with the man, as if pleading for assistance.

The Florentine man only smiled and dismissed his progeny as he himself began to walk in the opposite direction.

In that instant, Connor knew what the Mentor had suggested. He was to prove that he had been paying attention to the Italian's lessons of that day.

"And that makes you unlike the majority of the men that populates the world," the woman continued with a kind smile as they turned onto another street. "That is a rare quality in anyone, and you should hold it with pride."

Connor mulled over the woman's words, knowing that she was correct. He _didn't_ ask for anything in return; it was a trait that he had inherited from his mother when he was but a boy. Maybe it _was_ time to receive a small payment for his deeds.

"And that is why I am going to repay you in the only way that I believe that you deserve," the woman concluded as they reached a door a few moments later. She pushed it open and unhooked her arm, motioning him. "Please come inside."

He entered the threshold, the door shutting behind him. The woman lit candles along the way, instantly allowing the room to glow. She travelled up the narrow staircase to their right as she took his hand, pulling him with her.

The staircase led to her small bedchamber, and she shut the door behind them as they entered. She then drew the drapes that hung on the window, allowing moonlight to stream in the room. She smiled as she glanced at the man she had let into her home, wrapping her arms around his neck and her craning her neck to peer up at him.

She pulled his head to her level and gingerly placed her lips on his. She kissed him softly, and he followed her actions, lifting her onto his hips and feeling her legs wrap around his torso.

The heat between them began rising as they both became breathless and collapsed on the bed.

Connor's mind raced as he wasn't exactly sure what to do next. Luckily for him, the woman—whose name had not been given—led him.

And the heat of passion overtook them both into the bright moonlight.

* * *

The following morning, Connor awoke with a start, his eyes shifting around the strange room. He noticed his clothes scattered throughout the room, and a flaring heat overtook his face, causing him to curse under his breath.

He remembered everything that had transpired that prior night, and after a moment of hesitation, his lips slightly curled into a small smile. He glanced at the woman lying beside him, her brown hair fanned across the pillows. He watched her slowly breathe.

It was peacefully serene as if he was watching a creek gently roll.

He attempted to untangle his legs from her without stirring her, but he realized it was futile as he noticed her eyes flutter open.

She smiled at him and placed her hand on his abdomen, tracing the defining lines that were etched into his skin. "I thank you again, my savior," she whispered with a slight giggle attached, "for both heroic deeds."

"You are most welcome," Connor replied, his face beginning to return to its favorite color of crimson. He peered into the woman's eyes, and arched his brow slightly. "I believe you owe me one last thing."

"Oh?" the woman smirked. "And what might that be?"

"Your name."

The woman's face hardened. She remained silent for a moment and opened her mouth, pausing. She shook her head and closed it. Sighing slightly, she smiled lightheartedly, as if remembering a painful memory. "It's Cristina." She ran a hand through her hair shifted positions to her back, returning her eyes at him. "What might I call _you_?" she asked coyly.

"Connor," he answered.

She nodded in acknowledgement as she opened her mouth but then shut it. She smiled as a tear slowly rolled down her cheek. "You should go," she said as she caressed his cheek. "I didn't mean to keep you long, Connor."

He shook his head and wiped her cheek. "You kept me from nothing."

She emitted a small giggle as another tear rolled. "You are very similar to a man who I loved with all of my heart long ago. He was the best—and worst—person I had ever known. I gave him my heart, but he abandoned me, and I vowed never to do the same with another man." She wiped her tears as she sat up, clutching the covers to cover herself. "Yet I find myself in bed with a man very similar." She leaned close, pecking him on the cheek. "Never forget who you are, Connor. Never forget the people who care so much for you, for if you do," she paused, holding back a sob, "your world will collapse."

She motioned for him to leave, and he grimaced. He couldn't leave her so broken. He simply embraced her, softly running his fingers through her hair comfortingly. She tried to escape, but discovered that he wasn't about to abandon her like she had been before. She smiled at the thought and softly sobbed into his shoulder.

He was going to make a wonderful husband to the right woman, and she knew it. She knew that the fortunate woman to embrace him lovingly forever was not her, and she mentally winced as she thought of another man. She had loved him and given him her heart and everything else in between. And he had abandoned her.

Well, it wasn't as if he had that much of a choice.

But at the same time, they could've eloped as they had dreamed of doing before… _it_ happened.

But that was long ago, and she wasn't in the mood for brooding and grieving over her lost time.

She stopped her emotional state and pulled away from Connor's embrace. She kissed his lips softly and sweetly, pulling away as he began to follow her motions. She shook her head. "You have saved me, and I have repaid you. You may leave." She held her face as stern as she could muster and motioned once more for him to leave.

He nodded, gathered his belongings, and slinked downstairs as he quickly dressed himself, leaving the building.

He pulled his hood over his eyes as he hunched his shoulders while he walked. He needed to find the Italian and tell him of his success. He smiled slightly as he recollected the memory of last night, but his heart cringed as he felt the woman's pain.

_"Never forget who you are, Connor. Never forget the people who care so much for you, for if you do, your world will collapse."_

She had offered wise words to him that morning, and he wasn't about to forget them.

As he rounded a corner, he found the man who he had been searching for.

Ezio gave his pupil a lighthearted smile as they walked side by side. "How was she, _amico_?"

The corner of Connor's lips curled upwards. "Better than you could imagine."

Ezio's throat emitted a deep chuckle. "Ah, Cristina always was the best, I must confess."

Connor stopped dead in his tracks. "What? How do you know her?"

Ezio shrugged as he faced the man. He inhaled deeply, remembering a painful memory. "She was my first love," he admitted. He then returned his lighthearted smile to his lips. "She was incredible in every way. She knew how to lighten my darkest days, and she let light in to the night.

"I loved her, and she returned the feeling." He continued, a haunting gaze in his eyes. "She was the best thing that had occurred in my young life, and I abandoned her. I had no choice to leave this city and not return after the Templars executed my father and brothers under false accusations. She wanted to leave with me, but she knew that under the implications, she would be, essentially, just as wanted as I was.

"So I left, my thoughts never straying from her," he concluded. "The next time I had reunited with her, she was to be engaged to another man. I had blown my chance with her, and I never forgave myself." Ezio shook his head, ridding himself of the pain. "Ah, but I digress," he said with a smile. "I assume you two had a connection?"

"Of sorts," Connor replied. His eyes hardened, and he grimaced. "She misses you. She told me that I reminded her of you." He slightly smiled. "Then she kicked me out of the bed, ordering me to go."

Ezio barked a laugh. "Trust me, _amico_," he began, clapping the man on the shoulder. "If you continue your actions, you'll be kicked out of more beds than I have."

And the two Assassins shared a smile as they walked into the crowd, instantly vanishing from sight.

* * *

**A/N: Dun Dun DUUUN! I enjoy a good twist and surprise in stories, including my own! I truly enjoyed writing Connor as an innocently pure man! He's so much fun to write, and I love his interactions with Ezio in this! I honestly didn't think that I'd write this much, but I just kept having ideas popping up all over the place! :)**

**I appreciate all of those who have read this story thus far! It truly makes my day bright and shiny new! :)**


	3. Drowning Pool

**A/N: I want to take the time to thank you all for reading this! It means a lot, and I hope I maintain your expectations! **

**Now, this one was a bit tricky to write, mainly because I originally had a different idea for this, but then I decided against it because I wouldn't have been able to get very far with it. Alta****ïr may be OOC to you in this chapter (or in all of my chapters), but I needed to write him with powerful emotions in this (and will continue to do so). **

**So, just bear with me as I push out these chapters for you! **

**ONWARD!**

* * *

A cool rush overcame Altaïr's entire being, and he sighed in relief as the heat from the tropical sun faded away for a brief moment. He was aware that he was lying down, but he ignored his laziness as the coolness lingered around him. He felt as if he was floating in the sky, very similar to the feeling of a Leap of Faith. Altaïr's eyes seemed to roll back in his head as they were closed, signaling to himself that he was in the utmost state of relaxation.

He needed this more than anything. His life had been very stressful, for he had been plucked from his normal day and thrown into an endless void with three of his descendants.

However, it seemed that had all been a dream, and he was awakening to what he assumed was his ascent to the afterlife.

His eyes fluttered open, and he stretched his arms out to his sides. His hands smashed into solid wood, and it seemed as if the entire world jostled. Bolting upright, he took in his surroundings, as any efficient Assassin would, and his eyes widened in horror.

He let a yelp of fear escape from his throat, which was abnormal for him. Down at his feet, he noticed a body crumpled, breathing slowly. He nudged the masculine form with his foot, causing it to stir—which in turn caused the world to jostle once more. Altaïr kicked the body, and the body shot up in alarm, grabbing the wooden sides for support.

"What the hell, man?" Desmond inquired irritably, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

The elder Assassin didn't respond. His forehead broke out into a sweat, and his eyes shifted around nervously.

Desmond eyed the man curiously as he himself took a moment to survey the area.

Miles of ocean surrounded the two Assassins, who were both in a boat that seemed to rock with the slightest movement from either of them.

The younger Assassin curled his lips in a small smirk. "You know," he began as he eyed his ancestor, "you've been closely associated to eagles, right?" he questioned as the other Assassin slowly nodded with a cocked brow. "Well," he resumed, his smirk broadening into a devious grin, "I think you're more like a pussy—a cat, that is. You seem to be afraid of water."

Altaïr scoffed, highly offended. "How dare you insinuate this false accusation!" He threw his arms into the air out of rage, jostling the skimpy, woody boat. "I do _not_ hold fear for the endless liquid abyss!" Crossing his arms across his broad chest, he snarled. "I merely avoid contact so I do not soak my equipment! You honestly believe that I, the greatest Master Assassin known to man, fears what man must consume to _survive_? Are you mad or just stupid?"

The descendant barked a laugh. "You're seriously going to try to deny it? Face it, Altaïr; you can't swim, so you're afraid of water." He shot up from his sitting position, rocking the boat on the water. He smirked as Altaïr's reflexes reacted to hold onto the sides of the boat in an attempt to keep himself from being thrown overboard. "See? Right there let's me know that you can't stand the idea of water surrounding you, slowly pulling you down into the clutches of death. You are afraid to take a Leap if Faith into water because you can't swim."

"You are _wrong_!" the snarling Assassin seethed through his clenched teeth. "You are no different than those who pitted against me when I was stripped of my rank and weapons. You see the doubt in all possibilities of my skills, and you deem yourself right." He quickly bolted upright on his feet, clenching his fists as his blood boiled. "You are _wrong_, you inferior whelp. You do not hold the right to insinuate the improbable and place yourself higher by mere mockery." He glared at his inferior. "You are beneath me. Know your place."

Desmond cocked his brow for a moment and snorted in derision. "Big words from a pussy."

Altaïr snarled as he reached for his descendant. Desmond took this moment to move backwards towards the back end of the boat and spit more words at the irate man. Altaïr grabbed him by the front collar, holding his hidden blade close to his throat. Desmond merely smirked as he kicked off the boat at such an angle that he and his captor were thrown from it and splashed in the water.

Altaïr's grip tightened as he felt himself drowning. He was going to assassinate this man if he made it out alive—this he knew for certain. His breath was fleeting from his lungs as gravity pulled him beneath the surface of the deceitful waters, and he could feel his next target struggling to stay afloat.

Desmond grabbed the man by the arm and pulled him upwards. The man bobbed up, gasping for air as he attempted to kill his descendant, failing to think of his actions.

With a mere smirk, Desmond ducked a blow to the head, letting go of his ancestor. He wrangled the other man's grip from his collar, and he somehow managed to achieve freedom. He quickly backstroked away from his ancestor, who began flailing his arms as if to grab a magically appearing, stable surface.

"Calm down!" The descendant shouted above the splashes of water from the panicked man. "Stabilize yourself! Think of standing on a tightrope!"

Altaïr glared at him as he struggled to stay above the water. He gasped for air as he threw his head back in an attempt to remain afloat.

"Altaïr!" he shouted, getting the Assassin's attention. "If I help you, do you promise _not_ to kill me?"

Altaïr cut his eyes at the other man, propelling himself upwards with his arms. "You will die either way, inferior cur!" he snarled, kicking his feet below him.

Desmond shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said as he propelled himself towards the boat, pushing it further out to sea before climbing inside. He peered at his "superior" down the bridge of his nose and barked a laugh.

Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad showed fear in his eyes as he struggled to his balance atop the water. His head bobbed above and below the water's surface, and each time he resurfaced, he gasped for air. His lungs burned as he inhaled sharply and exhaled quickly, and as a result, he began to hyperventilate. His arms flailed, splashing water all around him, making his situation even more difficult to free himself from Death's embrace. His legs kicked aimlessly below him, and it seemed to endanger him more than help him.

This was it. This was his end.

He had only felt at a loss one other time. Al Mualim had stabbed him with a dagger, and he had felt Death's embrace—or at least he thought he had.

At that moment, he was ready for death. He knew that his time had ended, and he was to die by water. A loss at sea. How tragic.

Suddenly, he stopped all movement. All became still, and he closed his eyes.

He felt himself exhale one last time, and his body relaxed completely. He felt his soul well with his faith, and he felt it begin to lift from his body. His body felt weightless, and he was floating on transcendent air. His mind processes slowed down, allowing all life to seep from him.

He smiled—actually smiled. His mind and soul were at peace, and he accepted Death's invitation to ascend into the afterlife. His fellow Assassins would no longer ridicule him from his rank removal—not that he cared what anyone else thought of him. They could mock him all they wanted, but it didn't affect him in any form. All who mocked him were all of one cluster of being. They _envied_ him. They _envied_ his talents and skills.

He was simply superior. They knew their place, and he never allowed them to forget it.

He felt his body lift upwards in one fluid motion, feeling seemingly weightless.

He was at peace…

"Altaïr!"

That voice… It was… familiar. He'd heard it not too long ago, but he couldn't place where.

He strained to place it, but his mind decided to take a left onto the Road of Tranquility, where he lost himself. He felt nothing. Absolutely no—

He bolted upright, looking around frantically, seeing Desmond wringing his jacket over the edge of the boat.

Altaïr was no longer a victim of the seas, but he was an occupant of the shoddy boat, which he began to loathe just as much as the water on which it floated. He coughed water from his lungs, wiping his face with his hands. His robes were sopping wet, and he could feel his hidden blade rusting in place. He continuously flicked his wrist, allowing the blade to click out just in case his blade actually _was_ rusting.

The boat rocked as Desmond took a seat in front of his ancestor, causing the man to cling onto the boat in an attempt to keep himself from flipping overboard once again.

Altaïr glared at the man who sat before him.

Desmond had saved him, even after he had explicitly told his descendant that he was going to die if he did. He did it anyway.

"Why?" the ancestor inquired. His brow knitted as his eyes pierced through Desmond. "What called you to play God?"

Desmond shrugged. "If you had died or desynchronized or whatever the hell would fucking happen if you drowned, we wouldn't get out of here. So, despite your threats of assassinating me, I decided to save your sorry ass!"

Altaïr flicked his wrist once more, the blade protruding where his left ring finger should have been. "Who is to dictate what I do and when?" he demanded as he grabbed the collar of Desmond's shirt. "I could allow _you_ to see your God at this precise moment."

"But you won't," Desmond countered. "You know that if you do, you would _compromise the Brotherhood_."

Altaïr faltered. "_Compromise the Brotherhood_?" he bellowed digging the point of his blade to Desmond's Adam's apple. "You are _not_ of the Brotherhood!"

Desmond grasped the man's bladed wrist. "Maybe not _yours_, but I _am_ a part of the Brotherhood. The _present day _Brotherhood. One that is currently stopping the Templars from gaining control of other pieces of Eden, and in turn, the world." A smirk formed on his lips. "The very same job you excel at is the job I have right now. If you are to kill me, just know that you would be doing the Templars a _favor_ by ridding the world of me."

Altaïr narrowed his eyes and snarled, his mind whirring. Was this man speaking the truth?

_Nothing is true; everything is permitted. Do not kill an innocent man. Do not pronounce your actions to the world. Do not compromise the Brotherhood. Nothing is true; everything is permitted. _

Shoving the younger man from him, Altaïr regained composure, crossing his arms across his chest, a habit no doubt developed from observing his Native American descendant. "What do you suppose we do then, _Brother_?" he spat. "We can't stay here in the midst of an ocean to solve our problem, now can we?"

Desmond tapped into his Eagle Vision sense, scouting the open waters that surrounded them. He squinted at an extremely distant flicker of light and honed in. He pointed in the direction in which the light source illuminated. "Land's that way. It looks to be a few miles from here." He zoned out of his sense and glanced at his ancestor. "Problem is that we don't have any oars or paddles or anything to push us there."

Altaïr emitted a low growl from the base of his throat. "And what does that result in for us, exactly?"

"One of us has to swim behind the boat, pushing it while the other one guides from inside the boat," Desmond answered.

The elder Assassin gestured to the water. "Then, I believe it is time for you to begin making yourself useful and push, inferior whelp."

"Oh?" The descendant arched his brow. "It's _my_ duty to push?" He scoffed. "I don't think so." He jabbed his ancestor in the chest with his index finger. "Since you think that you're so fucking superior, I think _you_ should show me what it means to be superior!"

"So I can perish whilst you accomplish _nothing_?" Altaïr snorted, shaking his head. "You are _beneath me_. You must know your place." He gritted his teeth into a snarl. "So _push_."

Desmond did not reply as he turned his body toward the side of the boat. He placed his fingernails to the grain of the wood and peeled a large splinter from the edge of the main railing. Twisting it, he broke it into two unequal pieces, one longer than the other. He placed them into his hand, bringing both behind his back.

"What are you doing?" Altaïr questioned impatiently as he watched his descendant.

"Making this as fair as possible," he replied, holding both hands in front of the other Assassin. "You are going to choose one of these sticks. If you choose the longer piece, you stay in the boat. If you choose the shorter piece, then you have to push. I know which one is the larger of the two, but I have placed them in my fists in such a way that you can't tell which is longer." He smirked. "You just have to have the right guess in order to get your favorable outcome."

Altaïr narrowed his eyes. "Fine," he muttered under his breath. He tapped into his Eagle Vision and studied both hands…

And he couldn't tell which was longer. Damn it all to hell!

Growling, he pointed to Desmond's left hand, ripping the stick from his grasp.

And as fucking fate would have it, he would be the one to push.

He clenched his fists, steam seeming to radiate from his body.

"You know," Desmond began with a smirk. "If you're afraid of drowning like earlier, we could make you a lifeline…"

"How?" the ancestor snapped, completely irate over the fact the he was going to have to choke down his underlying fear of water.

"I could tie my jacket around my waist, you tie your sleeved tunic around yours, and we connect the two using our shirts."

"Absolutely not."

Desmond shrugged. "Alright, then. If you say so. Have fun drowning."

Altaïr pondered a moment, narrowing his eyes. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "Do it quickly."

Desmond gave him a mocking salute, peeled off his own wet t-shirt, and tied his jacket around his waist. He then tied his shirt to the sleeves of his jacket and stopped. "You have to do it, too."

Growling, Altaïr ripped off his belt and equipment, including the gauntlet that held his hidden blade, and peeled off his upper tunic and his under tunic. He tied the under tunic to his waist securely and tied the upper tunic to the sleeves of the under tunic. Thrusting the end of his line to his descendant, he crossed his bare arms across his bare chest impatiently as his descendant quickly knotted the two ends together, giving the line a tight pull.

"There," Desmond muttered, finished with his work. "Now just jump in and push. Hold onto the back edge of the boat and just worry about kicking. That's what will push us towards the shore," he explained. "If you slip, I can pull you up with this," he continued, holding up the makeshift rope. "Trust me," he assured the ancestor. "You won't die."

Altaïr narrowed his eyes. "If I die, I will ensure my vengeance by taking you with me."

Desmond nodded in agreement as Altaïr peered down at the water from the back edge of the boat.

The distance seemed longer than just a mere foot and a half to Altaïr. He swallowed his fear and grasped the edge of the boat. He crouched and swung one leg over, slowly dipping it into the water. He swung the other leg in and lowered himself into the cool water as he kept a firm grip onto the top edge of the wood, his fingernails digging into the wood.

"Ready?" Desmond called out, moving towards the front of the boat to keep the line stretched in case Altaïr did in fact lose his grip.

Instead of responding verbally, the elder Assassin merely began kicking, splashing water behind him. He propelled the boat quickly, his legs pounding against the water's surface.

Desmond scanned the horizon, tapping into his Eagle Vision. The beacon of light had grown slightly brighter, indicating that they were in fact heading towards civilization. He kept his eyes on the beacon until he noticed something seemingly jutting out of the water's surface off to the side. He squinted, ridding his advanced senses and laughed. "Hey, Altaïr! I know where we are!" he exclaimed excitedly.

Peering over the top edge of the boat, Altaïr's eyes focused on his descendant as he rested his legs for a moment. "Where?"

Desmond smiled. "We're off the coast of Florida. If we keep heading straight, we'll be on the beach. I guess the Animus can tap into my personal memories and transport us to the locations." He chuckled. "I remember coming to this beach as a kid. We came here _once_, and that was the first and last vacation I had as a kid."

Altaïr didn't respond to Desmond's soliloquy as he resumed his leg workout at a faster pace.

After a couple of miles, Altaïr's energy began wearing thin. His forehead was dripping with a combination of water and sweat, and he took short breaks every five minutes. Every muscle in his legs was on fire, and his lungs burned from holding his breath when his head dipped a little too low for comfort. His arms ached from holding onto the back edge of the boat, and he was certain that his nine fingertips were bleeding from his death grip onto the splintery wood.

Altaïr struggled to maintain his composure, and suddenly, as if whatever universe they were in conspired against him, his grip loosened completely, causing his to fall back into the water. The makeshift rope tightened, jolting Desmond towards the back of the boat.

The ancestor couldn't move. His body was tired, and he was completely exhausted. He needed _drinkable _water, food, and dry land to compensate.

He felt his body drifting in the water, slowly being pulled under by the shimmering veil of the water. Then, he felt something pulling him… upwards? Was this his soul as he felt earlier, or was this sorcery at work?

"Altaïr! Grab onto my hand!" Desmond commanded as Altaïr glanced lazily at him.

The ancestor shakily lifted his arm, securing his hand with his descendant's. Desmond pulled Altaïr over the boat's edge and dropped him onto the jostling surface of the boat.

Altaïr, who was flat on his back, coughed harshly, spitting up water. His aching muscles screamed as he did so and caused him to wince in pain.

"You okay?" Desmond asked, receiving a nod of the head as an answer. He pulled his ancestor towards the back of the boat, causing Altaïr's eyes to bug out.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, feeling splinters embedding themselves into his bare back.

"I'm taking over. Sorry if there are splinters, but I need the line towards my way so I can get into the water," he explained before adding, "I won't need the line like you did, but it'll be there just in case."

Altaïr made a sound of acknowledgement before closing his eyes. He heard Desmond climb over the back of the boat and the sound of his feet pounded against the water's surface.

At various times, droplets of water would rain onto Altaïr's face, but he didn't have the energy to protest. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and he had just dozed back off when the boat crashed into something.

Altaïr slowly raised up, his arms and legs still screaming. He turned his head, and he couldn't believe his eyes.

"Land," he whispered.

He scrambled, no matter how much his body protested, and lifted his descendant into the boat.

Desmond chuckled at his ancestor's eagerness, and they both stumbled out of the shoddy boat, collapsing on the powered sand.

Altaïr had never been more relieved! He was on dry land! His body pressed firmly against the warm sand, and he couldn't contain his excitement. A grin stretched across the man's face, and he sighed in relief. "Praise Allah," he whispered just in Desmond's hearing range.

Desmond's throat rumbled with laughter as he flipped his aching body, so he could feel the warm sand on his back. "Praise Allah, indeed."

* * *

**A/N: ****If you have thoughts concerning my writing, please feel free to comment in a review or in a PM! I'd appreciate it tons! BD **


	4. Jail Bait

**A/N: Thanks for reading and giving me feedback! It really helps me as a writer, and I strive for improvement!**

**I had a little too much fun writing this (like I seem to do with anything I write with Ezio or Connor in it)! This has been the longest chapter I've written so far, and I'm quite proud of it! **

**Anyway, that's enough of my incessant rambling! Here's another odd chapter by yours truly! :)**

* * *

Ezio downed the last of his fifth ale, slamming his mug on the small table. He smacked his lips as a slight burning sensation tickled the back of his throat. Clearing it away, he glanced at his descendant, who had just done the same task, only with two mugs of ale in his system. "Connor?" he asked, slightly slurring. "You know what?"

Connor cocked his brow, tapping his fingertips on the tabletop. He shifted in his chair and leaned in close. "What?"

Ezio curled his lips into a broad smile. "I tshlink I like it here." He rumbled a deep chuckle in the base of his throat, his cheeks numbing. "I really enshjoy thish plache, Connor."

Connor bit back a smile. "You have never had ale, have you?"

Ezio shook his head after a moment. "Nah, never had _shit_ in Italy. Only wine."

Connor leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his broad chest. He closed his eyes, allowing his ale to settle.

Ezio, his grin still plastered to his face, merely laughed. "You know what would be a grand idea, _amico_?" A few seconds ticked by, and Connor hadn't responded. Ezio then became aware that he was ignored by his descendant. "Well, _fottiti_, too!" he growled, shooting up from his seat.

The world spun, causing Ezio to cling to the table for support. Ezio's vision dulled in sharpness, and everything shifted in and out of focus. He chuckled at his own clumsiness as he staggered towards the bar next to a young woman.

He had eyed her the whole night, and he finally decided to make his move.

Ezio rested his chin on her shoulder. "Hello, _belladonna_," he purred, causing the young woman to slightly jump. "I have been watcshing you from afar, and I musht shay that you are…" He paused at his words. What was she? How could he describe her? Attractive? Beautiful? Gorgeous? Stunning? "…pretty," he finished with a goofy smile, wrapping his arms around her waist.

The woman shrieked, trying to pull away from him. "Guards! Guards!" She tried ripping herself from his grasp, but he only pulled her closer.

"_Amore mio_," he pleaded. "Don't do thish."

"Guards!" she shrieked once more as she began to elbow him in the ribs in an attempt to escape.

He chuckled at the woman's futile attempts as the front door flung open, five Lobsterbacks filing in with their muskets locked and loaded.

Ezio peered at them, dropping the woman, who ran to the nearest guard.

"Thank God in Heaven!" she exclaimed, getting behind the guard. "He would've made off with me had he gotten the chance! He would've done cruel things, very cruel things, sirs! He would've had his way with me then fled to the next young girl and do the same thing!"

The five Redcoats glared at Ezio, who merely stumbled in front of the leader, which happened to be the biggest and burliest out of the five.

Ezio frowned at the man before him. "You," he growled, "are the ugliest _shtronzo_ I've ever laid eyesh upon."

A heavy hand gripped his shoulder. "Ezio," Connor warned quietly, "you might want to save your words for when you can defend yourself _soberly_."

The ancestor scoffed. "Thish _bashtardo_ wash about to shay shomnething, I tshlink."

"Ezio!" Connor hissed, pulling the Italian back. "Shut your mouth before you start something!"

The Florentine merely threw his head back in laughter. He jabbed a finger in the burly Redcoat's chest as he wobbled drunkenly. "You wanna shee shomethin' _shtarted? _I'll _shtart _in hish wife'sh vagina!" He grinned deviously, glancing downward. "Bet hish _coglioni _don't shatishfy her, either."

The guard's face flared in rage as he Ezio in the head with the butt of his musket, sending him to the floor.

Ezio, sprawled in the middle of the floor on his back, couldn't help but find his situation very amusing. He rumbled in laughter, clutching his stomach. He felt himself be grabbed by the front of his robes and being pulled up.

The Redcoat lifted him level to his own face. "You're gonna come with me, prick," he growled in a cockney accent. "You _and _your accomplice."

Connor's ears perked. "_Accomplice_? I am no one's _accomplice_!" he defended. "I have done nothing wrong!"

"Wait," one of the guards suddenly peeped, stepping closer to the Native. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "This one's the one who's been goin' around killin' people! They must be working together! Get 'em!"

Pandemonium broke loose at that moment. All patrons scattered out of the small tavern, just leaving the five guards with the two Assassins.

The Redcoats surrounded Connor, who couldn't save himself, let alone Ezio. There was nowhere to run, and if he was to attempt escaping, he'd have to leave the Italian, who most likely had no idea what prison was like. He had no weapons, nothing. He simply raised his arms in defeat while Ezio's throat rumbled in a drunken chuckle.

"_Luridi branco di cani bashtardi_ got ush, huh?" Ezio slurred, lolling his head towards Connor's direction.

Connor winced as a gruff hand slammed down on his own shoulders. "Yes, Ezio, yes they did."

* * *

"Ugh," Ezio groaned as he winced at his massive headache. He clenched his fists as he slowly raised his body upwards into a sitting position. "_Merda_," he hissed as he slowly opened his eyes, the light from the candles outside his cell blinding.

He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing the sleep from them as he slowly stood up. His stomach refused the motion, and he gagged. He hadn't eaten anything in a while, so he didn't worry about his stomach being emptied.

Slamming back down on the bed, Ezio cursed under his breath as his entire body ached—especially his ribs. He was clueless as to where he could've possibly obtained bruised ribs, and he casted the thought aside as he took in his surroundings.

He was in a shoddy cell with rats lurking in the corners. He glanced down at his garb, finding a simple, beige cotton top and dark, cotton pants that fell just below his knees. Someone had done the unsettling liberty of stripping him down to what God had given him and then dressing him in filthy apparel.

He shook at the thought.

On the other side of the cell, he noticed that the stone had been pummeled through to a point that a gaping hole looked into the next cell. Iron bars were placed inside, most likely for security reasons.

Rising slowly a second time, he padded across the stone floor, stepping in various bodily fluids he didn't want to imagine. Peering into the next cell, he barely made out a sleeping form in the shadows.

"Connor!" he hissed. "Connor!"

The body did not stir, which caused Ezio to become agitated. Looking around the cell, in what little lighting there was, Ezio tapped into his Eagle Vision, enabling him to see slightly better. Inwardly cheering, he curled his fingers around a small stone and returned to the small window in the dividing wall. Aiming carefully, he released the stone, allowing it to soar through the hole and land smack-dab in the middle of Connor's back.

He stirred, causing Ezio to cheer silently.

"Connor!" he hissed. "Over here, _idiota_!"

The other man rose from his slumber and staggered to the window, meeting Ezio in the eye.

His face was severely scarred, and his lips curled into a sinister snarl. "Who you callin' _idiota_, sweetheart?" the man growled, grabbing the bars that separated them harshly and with such a grip that Ezio was certain that the man was going to rip the bars from the stone. The man leaned in close to the bars, his breath reeking worse than the bucket that had reserved for, well, relieving oneself in the cell. "I dunno who this _Connah_ charactah is, but believe you me, if I eva' get me hands on you, bitch…" the man, who was _clearly _not Connor, grinned deviously in the midst of his sentence, allowing Ezio to fill in the blanks mentally. "You're gunna be me new wife," he concluded with his cockney drawl.

Ezio raised his hands in defense. "_Mi dispiace veramente_," he said quickly. "I thought you were someone else."

The man growled once more and rattled the bars a bit before stumbling blindly towards his bed, where he collapsed into a deep sleep upon impact.

Ezio's forehead broke into a nervous sweat as he paced his cell for lack of anything better to do. He casted a glance at the other wall, noticing that there was _another _hole in the wall. The hole revealed a young man with a look on his face that seemed to be his attempt to bite back a smirk.

"Did you make a new friend?" Connor asked with a hint of sarcasm as he rested his elbows on the edge of the hole.

Ezio narrowed his eyes at his Native descendant. "_Chiudi il becco_, _bastardo_," he growled, causing the descendant to chuckle slightly, maintaining a seemingly calm face. The Florentine approached the hole and pierced Connor with his gaze. "Where are we?"

Connor sighed heavily. "Bridewell Prison in New York."

Ezio cocked a brow. "_New_ York? What happened to _Old_York?"

Connor deadpanned with an agitated gleam in his eye. "How about you ask your new husband in the cell next to you?"

Ezio worked an irritated tic in his jaw. "Never mind the _lurido porco._" He pondered a moment, stroking his chestnut facial hair. "Bridewell Prison, you say? It sounds as if you know the place from experience, _amico_."

Connor grimaced, averting eye contact with his ancestor. "I was charged not too long ago and was held in here for a few days." His gaze trailed off, seeming to recall the memory vividly. He shook himself out of his small trance and returned his gaze towards the eagle. "But never mind as to _why_ I know this place. Pay attention to _how_ I know this place."

The ancestor nodded slowly, understanding his meaning. "You know a way out of this hellhole," he proceeded, receiving a firm nod from the descendant. "_Va bene_."

The Native Assassin leaned into the gap, dropping the volume of his voice a few notches. "I am going to need a couple of days for preparation. We cannot cause any disturbances until then, understand?"

"_S__ì_," the Italian responded. "How do you suppose we accomplish this feat?"

"I will inform you at a different time," Connor answered matter-of-factly. "For now, just sleep. I know your head must be pounding from your drunken escapade."

Ezio glared at the other Assassin. "_Marmocchio_," he muttered as he internally agreed. He _was_ in pain, and he didn't want to be reminded of it.

* * *

"Hey!" a voice shouted. "Wake up!"

And to follow the command was a nice, refreshing kick to the ribs.

Ezio winced, clutching his already-bruised ribs as he felt one seemingly break. If it hadn't been cleanly broken, he'd just obtained a cracked one, which still caused a veil of pain to shroud his vision.

"I know you're awake, you little shit, now get your ass up before I make you!"

"_Cazzo_," the Florentine muttered under his breath as he slowly rolled to his better side and rose to his feet, clutching his side. He felt the guard shove him from behind, and he exited his cell with the guard barking orders—and insults to top them off—behind him.

Ezio must have descended the stairs at a slower rate than the guard desired because before he was near the bottom, the guard decided to allow him to take a tumble the rest of the way.

Hitting the bottom, the Florentine groaned in pain as he was _certain_ that his ribs were _indeed_ broken—not that he had access to any medicine anyway. He was yanked up by the guard and tossed into the midst of the other prisoners.

Grunting in pain once more, Ezio stood tall and scouted the area, finding Connor in the back of the crowd. He walked to his descendant, his arm wrapped around his side in an attempt to lessen the pain.

"What happened to you?" Connor questioned, gesturing to the man's side.

Ezio narrowed his eyes, turning his head toward the guard that had injured him. "That _figlio d'un cane_ there." He cut his eyes back to his descendant. "I just now know never to be thrown into a hellhole as this."

Connor folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the back wall as he ducked his head downwards. "You should join me. It is less conspicuous than standing there with your back turned towards everyone else."

The Florentine followed suit and gave a sideways glance at the wolf. "What exactly do you propose we do now?"

The wolf sighed. "I have a key replica at my disposal. I need to get yours fabricated, and once I do, I will slip it to you. You will know more once I have that accomplished."

The Italian arched his brow. "Oh? So you know exactly how this will all fall?"

The other man slightly shook his head. "No, but I have done something like this before," he reminded him. "I was let along as you are now. I cannot chance anything falling into the wrong hands at this crucial moment. Things need to fall into place at the moment, and nothing can interrupt them. Understand?"

Ezio gave a heavy sigh, which cause his ribs to ache. "_Va bene_."

The two men stood there in the same spots on the wall until the guards dispersed everyone back to their respective cells.

Over the next couple of days, Ezio had made the conscious decision that never again would he cause enough public grief that he would end up in any type of prison again. No matter if he was in Connor's world or his own. He was not to engage in drunken revelry again.

The man who had promised the Florentine eagle as his—ahem—_spouse_ never looked far from Ezio's location at any given point in time.

It sent chills down the Assassin's spine.

He was accustomed to _women_ of all types gazing at him with large eyes and practically bowing before him with lustful intentions, but he had never been threatened by anyone of the male species.

In that respect, he vowed to stay far from all other prisoners as God would allow him.

Connor eventually gave him the other key replica and told him the rest of the plan.

"Now," he began, shifting his eyes for wandering prisoners, "you know how the guards threaten to throw us in the pit? We need to get thrown into it. Guards patrol the cells, giving you only a few seconds to slip the key from their belt and swap it for the fake." He glanced at his ancestor for a moment, allowing all of this to soak into his head. "Is the plan solid enough for you?"

Ezio pondered a moment, inhaling deeply. "And how do we get thrown into the pit, exactly? Pick a fight with _bastardi_?"

The Native nodded grimly. "Yes, we both have to in order to get out of here. Are you in shape to fight?"

Ezio chuckled softly. "I've seen better days, _amico_, but I've also been near the brink of death. I can manage for now."

The other Assassin slightly smiled. "Good. We start now. Try to take out as many as you can," he said before he himself walked from the wall towards a lowly prisoner.

And the brawl began.

Ezio followed suit, swaggering up to some rugged-looking fellow and began wailing on him. The two parried, and others started in on the opposing side.

Throwing a right hook, Ezio sent one prisoner spiraling backwards as another took his place, delivering a blow to the eagle's jaw. Staggering backwards, Ezio lunged at another man, taking him out while he could. He then countered other attacks, ending their owners.

At all times to occur, Ezio's side sent shockwaves of pain throughout his body, causing him to double over in agony. He felt a swift kick hit him from behind, and he swept the man's feet from under him, hearing a loud _thud_ from the man hitting the floor with great speed.

Springing back up, Ezio winced as his side ached, but he managed to lessen the pain by merely knocking two skulls together, sending the men down to the floor.

The mob that had attacked the Florentine had all been dispatched, and he glanced at his descendant, who was taking care of the last three prisoners who dared to face him or the Italian. Sending the three to their defeat, Connor merely gave Ezio a sideways glance as he motioned towards a group of guards, bearing arms.

"Hey!" a guard bellowed at the two troublemakers. "You think it's fun to cause a fracas? You think it's fun to be delinquents?" He gestured to them. "Men, take these lobcocks to their new cells in the pit."

The guards wrangled the two Assassins and escorted them to their individual cells that resided at the very bottom level of the prison. Coincidently, their cells were just across the small hallway from one another.

It seemed as if God had a plan for the Assassins.

Ezio was thrown into his cell, and he heard the door slam behind him. Rising on his feet as the guards shuffled passed the door, he glanced at the cell across the hall. He arched his brow as Connor began to wave his hands and motion odd signals at him. He gave the Native a shrug of the shoulders and contorted his face into one of confusion, mouthing questions of just what the hell he was doing.

Connor rolled his eyes with an irritated attitude about him. He pointed at Ezio and then motioned towards the door.

Ezio… door?

_"Ma che cazzo?" _the Florentine eagle mouthed, utterly confused.

And before Connor could further explain, a large and burly Redcoat seemed to decide unknowingly that he was to stand in front of Ezio's cell, blocking all visual scenery towards Connor.

Ezio scowled, throwing daggers from his eyes at the _figlio d'un cane_'s back.

And suddenly it struck him in the ribs. Well, not in the literal ribs, more like the ribs in the brain.

He needed to sneak behind the guard and swap out keys.

Tiptoeing towards his cell door, Ezio pulled out the replica. He reached for the burly man's key ring, attempting to slide the Golden Ticket from it. The man shifted, causing Ezio to panic. He froze in place, allowing the man to relax and began to slide the key from the ring in a fluid motion. Dropping the real key down his collar, where from there it immediately fell to the crease where the bottom hem of the shirt was tucked into his cropped pants, he replaced the key with the fake and slowly backed away from the door as if never there.

Letting an inaudible sigh of relief, Ezio quickly sat on the so-called bed and feigned innocence. He lounged there until the guard left the cell door. He bolted to his feet, staring into Connor's cell, where the Native was nowhere to be found.

"_Merda_!" he hissed under his breath, fumbling the lock open with the key. He kept a lookout for passing guards as he placed his hands on the bars of Connor's cell, which creaked open and revealed an empty space.

Where did he go? There was no way for him to escape from his cell in that amount of time; Ezio was sure of it!

Peering into the empty cell, Ezio scratched his head, completely astounded. He didn't know how in the world his descendant was capable of pulling off such a feat, but he definitely needed to learn how to do that for himself.

"If you peer into that cell any longer, we will not have the time to escape," a voice warned behind Ezio, causing him to jump in surprise.

He turned, seeing his descendant directly behind him.

The Native shook his head in disappointment. "And you are a Master Assassin? Times in Italy must have been extremely primitive."

Ezio cut his eyes at the other man. "How did you do that?"

Connor merely blinked. "However do you mean? I simply switched out keys the while I was being escorted and escaped while you were slipping your key from the guard in front of your cell."

Ezio knitted his brow in confusion. "But he was staring straight into your cell!"

Smirking, the Native shook his head as he led Ezio down the hall. "He was nodding off."

The two tucked themselves into the corner of the hall once a guard appeared no more than twenty feet in front of them. Once the guard passed, Connor simply twisted the guard's neck, killing him instantly.

"What are you doing?" Ezio hissed.

Connor didn't reply as he quickly undressed the Redcoat and swapped clothing with the dead man. He grabbed the musket from the guard's hands and pointed it at Ezio. "Get moving, filthbag," he growled in a mock-British accent.

Instantly understanding, Ezio raised his hands eye-level. The eagle began slowly walking, being prodded forward from the blade at the end of Connor's gun, which added authenticity when unsuspecting guards passed the duo.

They walked up a flight of stairs and rounded a corner, where a group of guards was stationed.

"Where d'ya think yer goin'?" a Redcoat sneered, shifting his gaze from Connor to Ezio. "He goin' somewhere?"

Connor gave a firm nod. "The gallows."

The guard arched a brow. "Tha gallows? Ain't the executions tamarrah?"

Connor shook his head. "Not this bastard's. I have been ordered to personally escort him. By orders from the warden."

Ezio's forehead broke out into a thin sheen of sweat. Connor had better know what he was doing, otherwise…

He'd end up just like his father and brothers.

"'By orders from tha warden?'" the guard repeated in disbelief. "D'ya hear this lobcock? Tha _warden_ ordered 'im to escort this bastard to tha gallows!" the guard sneered as his fellow Redcoats mocked them. He jeered with his fellow guards, mocking the duo. Suddenly, he reclaimed his composure. "I don't think so. Take 'im back to 'is cell."

Connor worked an irritated tic in his jaw and stood his ground. "I have been given specific orders to escort him to the gallows. I am doing as commanded whether or not you accept."

The guard barked a laugh. "Wot? Yer doin' as commanded? I don't think I've 'eard anythin' so precious! Ya 'ear that, boys? The man's doin' as 'e's told!"

Connor prodded Ezio with his gun, his brows furrowed. "If you men would like to join this prisoner to the gallows, I can arrange it."

The guards merely laughed mockingly.

It was then Connor jabbed the leading guard with the butt of his gun and sent him down to the floor.

Ezio dodged as another guard swung his fist towards him. He then threw a right hook at the man, knocking him against a wall.

Connor took out the remaining two guards with the blade of the gun and jabbing the butt in the other's face.

"Run," the Native breathed as he unlocked the gate in front of him.

The two Assassins bolted through the corridors, making sharp turns and taking guards out as they went along. Up a flight of stairs the duo went, knocking a pair of guards to the ground.

Eventually the maze ended with the front door in sight.

The two Assassins threw open the door and bolted into the streets, catching the attention of multiple squadrons of guards. They split into different directions, and Ezio knew at once that he was utterly lost.

He heard the guards behind him, yelling after him. He jumped atop a fence, disappearing only for a moment before the guards rounded the corner, announcing their discovery. He growled in frustration as he saw an open window and climbed his way up, startling the woman who stood inside.

"_Mi dispiace_," he muttered as he quickly sprinted around a corner and vaulted over a table, exiting the window onto the main street. He knew that he'd lost the guards for the moment as he blended with a small group of conversing people. He waited a few moments before exiting the group, knowing that the guards gave up the search.

He needed to find the other Assassin.

Ezio knew that his descendant would be in Redcoat garb, but he couldn't distinguish one guard from another—not that he ever could in the first place.

A heavy hand slammed onto his shoulder. "You're comin' with me, ya lobcock," a cockney accented voice declared behind him, making him whip his head in that direction.

He glared at the Redcoat-outfitted Assassin. "_Bastardo_," he muttered as Connor merely smirked at him.

* * *

**A/N: And there's another chapter written for y'all! :D **

**I thoroughly enjoy writing Ezio and Connor in the middle of shit they start themselves! I thought that I was never going to be able to write another one that was as amazing as Connor's first time, *wink, wink!* but I think that Ezio escaping from prison is pretty good too! ;) I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I had fun writing it! :)**

**And I apologize if my fight scenes aren't as good as action movies. I can't write a fight to save my life! **

**If you have any concerns about my writing, please feel free to drop a review or a PM! It'll encourage me to keep updating as soon as I can! ;D **

**Oh! One last thing! If you saw caught the Willy Wonka reference BEFORE reading this A/N, I commend you! You deserve a box of Nerds! :D **


	5. Viewpoint Synched

**A/N: Before I begin this long-ass note, I need to address an important topic. It has come to my attention (via review and follow-up PMs) that this story needs to have warning labels attached to the chapters. So, without further delays… **

**WARNING! THIS STORY CONTAINS STRONG HUMOROUS CONTENT THAT SHOULD BE READ IN A DISCREET LOCATION. IF YOU ARE IN THE SAME ROOM AS OTHER PEOPLE, AWAKE OR SLEEPING, YOU NEED TO MOVE AWAY FROM THE AREA IF AT ALL POSSIBLE. YOU MAY EXPERIENCE THE FOLLOWING BEFORE, DURING, AND AFTER READING THE CHAPTER: THE GIGGLES, SIDESPLITTING LAUGHTER, NAUSEA, VOMITING, PAINFUL GAS, EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA, HYPERVENTILATION, HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE, FEVER, AND/OR ABDOMINAL CRAMPS. **

**IF YOU ARE PREGNANT, YOU MAY MISCARRY. **

**PLEASE ASK YOUR DOCTOR IF YOUR HEART IS HEALTHY ENOUGH FOR SEX, I MEAN, READING THIS STORY. **

**And there's your warning! This exact warning will be posted in the remaining chapters, no matter how not funny I think they are. I know that a select few are just too funny to even THINK about, let alone how they might read on screen! **

**Enjoy the chapter!**

**ONWARD!**

* * *

They were being chased.

Of _course_ they were being chased throughout Jerusalem.

Desmond swore under his breath as he leapt through _another _merchant stand with the guards at his heels. He glanced at the rooftops, seeing Altaïr breezing by as if this was _normal_ for him.

Of _course _it was. It _always_ was.

Seeing the Syrian Assassin hide in a roof garden, Desmond growled in frustration. The guards were _still_ at his back, barreling down the streets like a bunch of terrorists—not that he was racist or anything. He turned a sharp corner, breaking sight for a brief moment before being discovered again.

Looking around, he noticed a large tower with a platform anchored to the top, peering over the city. Sprinting to it, he grabbed onto the jagged edges of the building and began scaling up, leaving the guards on the ground. He sighed in relief as they didn't attempt to climb up the sides of the tower to reach him.

But then they started chunking rocks at him, nailing him in the back.

He felt his grip loosening and began to lose his balance. He felt another rock hit him, this time in the back of the head, and he plummeted towards the earth, the guards cheering in victory.

And suddenly they weren't.

Desmond felt the crumpled bodies of the guards beneath him, and he scrambled to get up. He needed to blend in quickly in order to escape any more pursuits!

Spying a wagon filled with hay, he jumped inside, receiving a mouthful of the dead straw. Burying himself, he held his breath as he noticed two guards in front of the wagon.

"Where do you believe the infidel has vanished to?" one guard inquired, looking everywhere.

"I haven't a clue."

A few moments passed, and the first guard shrugged. "Well, he's gone now," he said as he and the other guard began walking away.

Desmond waited a few moments before emerging from the hay, spitting the straw from his mouth. He dusted himself off, noticing that he didn't have his normal clothing on.

He was dressed Assassin robes that were similar to his ancestor's. He arched his brow at the robes quizzically. Why did his clothes change in Altaïr's world but Altaïr's didn't in his world? It didn't make any sense.

But if any of this shit made any sense at any given point in time, his name wouldn't be Desmond Miles; it would be Sheldon Cooper. This would all be explained by advanced physics that only the _Big Bang_ character could even begin to understand.

Shrugging off the weird feeling that somehow _something _or _someone_ undressed him, Desmond began his search for the other Assassin, finding him almost immediately, even though he was blending with a group of scholars.

Desmond joined the blend, slightly bumping into Altaïr, who merely gave a sideways glance at him.

He narrowed his eyes at his descendant. "How on earth did you find me?" he whispered in shock.

Desmond slightly shrugged. "You stick out like a sore thumb in comparison to these _dark cloaked_ scholars." He grabbed Altaïr's arm, allowing the scholars to pass them and move forward without them. He folded his arms across his chest—curse that damned Connor!—as he eyed his ancestor. "How in the world are you able to run across the rooftops with ease while I run around blindly in the streets?"

Altaïr lifted his chin arrogantly. "I am a Master Assassin. You are merely my descendant. Nothing more."

Desmond furrowed his brow. "Since you're a 'Master,'" he mocked as he put air quotes around _Master_, "then show me what it means to be an Assassin."

If Altaïr had been drinking anything, he would've spit it straight into Desmond's face. His eyes bugged as he seemed to choke on his own spit. "What?"

"You heard me," Desmond retorted. "Teach me to be an Assassin. I want the true training that novices are forced to endure. I don't want my skills to strictly come from reliving life through my ancestors' lives. I _want_ to train. To get stronger. To fight Templars. I want to be the real deal," he concluded with a strong conviction about him.

The ancestor was speechless. He stared at his descendant as if trying to locate the proper words for the moment. He opened his mouth then quickly shut it. He shook his head in what Desmond guessed as denial and knitted his brow. "How could one _possibly_ demand such training? It would take years in order for your training to _barely_ scratch the surface of the skills it takes to become a fully-ranked Assassin."

Desmond shook his head. "For a novice, maybe, but for me? No, it won't take years. A few days, maybe. I've trained during my childhood, but that was years ago. I thought I had lost everything I had learned, but surprisingly enough, being in the Animus has actually allowed my skills to resurface. I have the majority of the skills; I just need the guidance to use them properly."

Altaïr shifted his weight from his left foot to his right, slightly cocking his head. "Are you up for the challenge? It takes true dedication to take up the lifestyle of a true Assassin. Even if my blood _does_ course through your veins, it does not mean that this will be an easy task for you. You must give me a blood oath that swears your commitment to the Brotherhood."

"Blood oath? Since when did the Assassins use blood oaths?"

Altaïr scoffed. "It is not a common ritual. Within the Masyaf Brotherhood, every Master Assassin is told in secrecy that he must only do this if and only if he was to take an apprentice under his wing," he explained, his face as solid as stone. "No one is to know of the ritual, which is an unspoken creed amongst the Brotherhood. It is uncommon for an apprentice to appear before an Assassin, for most Assassins are born into the world of the lifestyle."

Desmond snorted. "Funny you say that," he mumbled underneath his breath.

The ancestor unsheathed his dagger and held it firmly in his right hand. "Bring forth your left hand."

Desmond arched his brow. "Here? In the middle of the street in plain sight of guards?"

Altaïr deadpanned. "Would you rather climb the tower from which you fell and do it there?"

The descendant's eyes glanced at the top of the tower, which seemed to be a nice ten stories above the ground. He gulped and slowly shook his head. "Fine, just make it quick," he griped as he stuck out his left hand, palm-side up.

The Master Assassin's blade gleamed in the desert sun as he brought the point to Desmond's flesh. He slowly raked it across his palm from the base of his thumb to the base of his little finger, blood ebbing forth. Desmond winced at the pain as his ancestor did the same to his own hand without so much as a twitch.

The two men joined bloodied hands as Altaïr began muttering a phrase repeatedly in Arabic, which the American could not distinguish. Their blood seemed to—burn, possibly?—as it mingled between their hands. All Desmond could hear was Altaïr's phrase being muttered repeatedly and could feel the blood ebbing forth from the wounds and combining.

A white flash shined in Desmond's field of vision, and suddenly he collapsed with a mixed shroud of pain and confusion.

* * *

Desmond could hear the sounds of clay jars being set onto a counter in the distance. He felt the sun beat down on him, and he slowly wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead as he could feel his consciousness buzzing inside him. He felt wired as if he had a jumbo coffee topped off with a large Redbull, and the jittery feeling was rather unusual for the modern-day Assassin.

The American groaned as he felt the sharp rip from his hand. Where the hell did that come from, again? Did he rip the skin from his hand when climbing that building?

His eyes fluttered open as he slowly rose from a pallet of rugs and feather pillows in the corner of a small outdoor room. He glanced around the small area, noting to himself that the only way out was to climb up the fountain and grab the edge of the opening. The stone flooring was surprisingly cool despite the constant heat from the sun, and the room was also empty.

Rising to his feet, Desmond dusted off his Assassin robes and examined his left hand, which had been wrapped in linen to staunch the apparent blood flow. He slightly flexed his hand, wincing at the feeling of the skin tearing apart even further. Closing his fist in an attempt to dull the pain, he ventured into the doorway of the small room next to him.

A relatively young man stood at the counter, counting jars and paying no attention to the newcomer.

"Um," Desmond began, slightly startling the man, "where's Altaïr?"

The man turned his head as he tapped the last jar on the shelf behind the counter. "Ah," he acknowledged as he turned his body to face the Assassin. "I presume you are Altaïr's apprentice?" he asked.

"Something like that."

The man smirked. "I see," he said as he leaned his elbow on the counter, his eyes never leaving Desmond's. "He requires a few essential tools from Masyaf and will return shortly." The man motioned to himself with his one arm. "I am the Bureau Leader of Jerusalem, Malik."

"Desmond," the American replied with a small gesture to himself. After a moment, he glanced at his left hand. "Were you the one that wrapped my hand?"

The Bureau Leader shook his head slightly. "No, it was already dressed when Altaïr brought you here. I recall that he possesses a similar wound." He arched his brow as he eyed the apprentice. "I presume that he is training you?"

"Well, obviously," Desmond retorted with a note of sarcasm. "I mean, that's what an apprentice is, right? One who trains under another?"

Malik relaxed as his eyes seemed to understand what Desmond did not. "Yes," he replied with a hint of thought. "An apprentice certainly does train underneath the teaching wing of a mentor." His eyes held a strange gleam that Desmond couldn't exactly place. "As I understand the world to work," the man began with a slight smirk across his lips, "a mentor must be assured by his trainee that he will be as committed to training as the mentor will be to teaching, correct?"

"Sure, I guess."

"I see. And I also realize that in order for some mentors to trust their new trainee, the mentor must bring forth some type of challenge or _vow_, correct?"

Desmond arched his brow. "I suppose?"

Malik's smirk broadened across his lips. "Often times the challenges or vows usually are sealed in _blood_, are they n—"

"That is enough," Altaïr warned the Bureau Leader as he entered the small room with a stern glare. "I do not appreciate your prying, _Malik_," he growled, clenching his fists. "It is not your place to ask questions. It does not concern you if this man is in fact my apprentice or not." He glanced at his descendant. "You," he pointed. "Follow me," he commanded as he turned on his heel and exited the building.

Desmond gave a last glance towards Malik, who was merely smirking at him, and he stepped out of the room and into the small outdoor room with the sunroof entrance.

He noticed Altaïr's robes slightly hanging from the top ledge of the entrance, telling him that he was to climb out. Stepping on the fountain's edge, he found handholds and footholds all the way up, straining to pull himself up onto the roof.

Once up, he glanced at his ancestor, who was pulling out a sword, dagger and throwing knives.

"These are your only friends in this lifetime. Your blades will save you from all dangers—if they allow it," he said as he handed the blades to his descendant. "You will be trained efficiently in the art of wielding a blade," he explained as Desmond put away his new "friends." Altaïr's lips slightly curled into a small smirk. "But first," he began, shielding his eyes from the sun and looking into the distance, "you must master the art of surveying the area."

Desmond's eyes narrowed. "You can't possibly mean fucking viewpoints, can you?"

"That is _exactly_ what I mean, _apprentice_," the ancestor sneered. He motioned for his descendant to follow him as he leapt from that rooftop to the next.

Desmond inwardly groaned as he followed the Master Assassin across the rooftops of Jerusalem.

"Shit," he hissed as a guard patrolling the rooftop on which he had just landed began to yell for him to get down. He looked ahead at Altaïr, who didn't even flinch at the remarks. Desmond decided to follow suit and ignore the guard as his legs pounded on the shingles of the roofs. Making the next leap, he rolled upon impact with the rooftop, grunting. On his feet again, he glanced ahead once again at his ancestor, who acted as if nothing was behind him. He seemed completely at peace with running a good thirty feet from solid ground.

No wonder Altaïr made Desmond undergo a blood oath.

Desmond saw the tower nearing in his field of vision, and he inwardly cheered. Leaping over this stretch of buildings was going to kill his muscles, and he knew it. He also knew that he had to remain strong and not be a pussy like Altaïr.

Or at least not be one _in front of_ Altaïr.

The remaining rooftops seemed to blur together as the trainee leapt after his ancestor from rooftop to rooftop. Landing on the final one before the tower, Desmond slowly jogged to Altaïr, who calmly and silently waited for him.

"Well, I see you kept a good pace," the ancestor remarked with a slight sneer.

The descendant narrowed his eyes at the other man. "So what now?" he asked with an irritated tone in his voice.

The ancestor gestured to the tower. "We climb," he declared matter-of-factly as he jumped the small gap from the edge of the rooftop to the nearest handholds and footholds and began propelling himself upwards with a slight smirk.

Desmond growled in frustration and followed suit. He heaved himself up the tower, his muscles straining. His hand seemed to rip even more, but he ignored the pain that it caused him as he quickly scaled the side of the tower, heaving himself over the top edge.

Atop the tower, the descendant raked a look across the landscape, wincing at the great height. The buildings seemed to blur together into one mass of gray. The people streamed below looked more like ants or gnats from the height, which made Desmond's stomach queasy.

Inching away from the edge slowly, the descendant glanced at his ancestor. "Why exactly are we here?"

Altaïr merely smirked. "We are here for one reason and one reason only. To observe. To watch. To listen. This is the _most_ important aspect and tool at Assassins have at disposal. An Assassin must always observe his surroundings before striking and must do so in first priority." He tiptoed to the ledge that jutted over the city. Crouching on the beam, he scanned the area before glancing behind him at the trainee. "And once one has observed, one can depart the scenery." Standing up, he flashed Desmond a mocking smile before performing a Leap of Faith into the wagon of hay below.

Desmond's forehead broke out into a sweat. He inched onto the wooden beam and peered below him. He scanned the rooftops, the streets, and the alleyways. Everything seemed a tad too geometrical for his taste, as if he was still in New York. He slowly rose to his feet, peering at the wagon of hay.

Altaïr stood nonchalantly a few feet from the cart. It seemed as if he was actually _waiting patiently_ for the trainee's Leap of Faith, which surprised Desmond.

Desmond inhaled deeply, swallowing the fear that he was going to break something upon impact with the hay. He inched towards the ledge, holding his arms wide open, like that one old song. He sprang from the platform, closing his eyes and feeling the wind rushing passed him. He turned his body forward, so that when he landed, he wouldn't paralyze himself.

Crashing into the hay, he ingested a fair share of straw, inwardly growling. Spitting the hay from his mouth, he dug himself out and glared at his ancestor. "Do you enjoy eating dead grass?" he inquired, his voice coated in sarcasm.

Altaïr shrugged. "You acclimate to your surroundings," he replied matter-of-factly. He began walking from the scene, causing Desmond to run after him in order to catch up.

Ending his jog, Desmond walked beside his ancestor. "So now what? What's next on your torture agenda?"

"You will wield your blades."

The descendant arched his brow quizzically. "You and I are going to swordfight?"

The ancestor shook his head as he noticed a bench. Sitting down between two women, he nonchalantly blended. Peering passed his descendant, he lowered his forehead. "ASSASSIN!" he exclaimed in a disguised voice.

Desmond knitted his brow as he glared at the man. "What the fu—"

"INFIDEL!" a guard bellowed as he rounded a corner with a small pack behind him. "GET HIM!"

Desmond drew his sword and held it firmly in his hand in a defensive stance as the pack of feral guards drew closer, who also drew their blades.

A guard lunged at the apprentice, and blades clashed. The two parried as the other guards attempted to slash at the trainee with no avail.

All of the knowledge that Desmond's brain had stored was flooding back to him with such a speed tat it almost gave him a headache. He slashed at one guard, sending him spiraling backwards and to the ground as another guard nicked him on the arm, blood ebbing from the wound. He winced at the pain as he rammed his blade through the center of one guard, causing him to gargle up blood as his breath fleeted from his lungs. Yanking his sword from the body, Desmond turned to the other three guards, his sword glistening with blood.

He watched their movement carefully, and when one attacked, he evaded impact and hacked at the man's carotid, blood splattering on his robes. Desmond slashed at the two remaining guards, sending them reeling. He then quickly sheathed his sword and flicked the throwing knives at them, piercing them in the heart.

The bodies landed with a solid _thud_, and Desmond strutted over to his mentor with a smug grin plastered across his face.

Altaïr rose to his feet, motioning for the trainee to follow. Leading him through some back alleyways, the ancestor glanced at his descendant. "I did not realize that you were more trained than a standard novice."

"I told you that I had training growing up," Desmond retorted. "I just needed the guidance to put the skills to use." He glanced at his bandaged hand and lifted the cloth, revealing a delightfully scabbed slash across his palm. He narrowed his eyes at his ancestor. "Was the blood oath _really_ necessary? Because it fucking hurt, and it still does."

Altaïr slightly smirked. "I required the assurance that you were going to follow through with what I was going to put you through." He shrugged. "I _guess_ I could have simply _asked_ for your word, but…"

Desmond deadpanned. "You could've _what_?"

The ancestor raised his hands in defense. "I figured that a blood oath was more appropriate, on account of your stubbornness. In any case, it truly _wasn't _necessary." The corners of his lips slightly lifted. "Frankly, the entire 'blood oath' nonsense isn't a practice amongst the Brotherhood. Honestly, I simply desired compensation for your stunt in that damned sea."

Desmond clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "All of that for _payback_?" He worked an irritated tic in his jaw. "It's a wonder that you haven't been _kicked out_ of your Brotherhood for your stupidity."

The ancestor merely snorted in derision.

"Anyway," the American continued as he folded his arms across his chest, "what are you going to show me now? You've shown me how to wield blades and how to freefall from a fucking tower. What's next?"

The Syrian shrugged. "There's nothing more I can teach you."

Desmond deadpanned. "Are you fucking kidding me? You make me pass out during a fucking _blood oath_, which wasn't even real, and you only show me how to fight and fall? What kind of an Assassin _are_ you?"

"Obviously a better one than you, inferior whelp," Altaïr retorted as he walked across a main street to the doors of a large building. He smirked as the doors opened, a steady stream of white-robed scholars flowing forth, enveloping the Master Assassin.

And he was gone. Poof. He vanished from sight.

"Fucking bastard," Desmond muttered as he began his apparent last lesson from the Master: Find the white-robed bastard in the midst of white-robed scholars.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed the huge nod to the AC1 cut scene before the main menu! :D Oh, how I love it! :3**

**I just want to take the time to thank all of those who have read, reviewed, fave'd, and followed this story! It makes me so happy when I see a new review or a new fave/follower. It encourages me to continue to write this story! I honestly didn't think that I'd get much feedback, but, here I am, getting more than I originally thought! Thank you all soooooo much! :D **

**Thanks for reading! :D Please review! :D**


	6. Mainframe Review

**A/N: Le chapterly advisory… **

**WARNING! THIS STORY CONTAINS STRONG HUMOROUS CONTENT THAT SHOULD BE READ IN A DISCREET LOCATION. IF YOU ARE IN THE SAME ROOM AS OTHER PEOPLE, AWAKE OR SLEEPING, YOU NEED TO MOVE AWAY FROM THE AREA IF AT ALL POSSIBLE. YOU MAY EXPERIENCE THE FOLLOWING BEFORE, DURING, AND AFTER READING THE CHAPTER: THE GIGGLES, SIDESPLITTING LAUGHTER, NAUSEA, VOMITING, PAINFUL GAS, EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA, HYPERVENTILATION, HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE, FEVER, AND/OR ABDOMINAL CRAMPS. **

**IF YOU ARE PREGNANT, YOU MAY MISCARRY. **

**PLEASE ASK YOUR DOCTOR IF YOUR HEART IS HEALTHY ENOUGH FOR SEX, I MEAN, READING THIS STORY.**

**And _viola_! There's your warning. Don't say I didn't warn you! **

**Honestly, I don't think that this one's all that fantastic. I think it's mainly—and don't hate me for saying this—a filler. I kinda just ramble in this chapter, but my rambling kinda makes a little bit of sense! Sorta. I apologize if it doesn't meet your expectations of literary excellence. In any case, it's a chapter. It's posted. Deal with it. :P **

**Oh, one last thing… I have started school this past week, and my schedule for writing and posting will be cut short. I apologize ahead of time for this inconvenience! (The Templars run my school, and they try to keep us Assassins in their clutches!) **

**ONWARD!**

* * *

Clouds seemed to fog Desmond's mind, shrouding any single bit of clarity that may have been in his field of vision both physically and mentally. Something deep inside his brain whispered to him that he had returned to the Animus Mainframe with his three ancestors, yet something seemed amiss. Something somewhere didn't quite fit the puzzle correctly, and that feeling seemed to enlarge by the second.

The modern-day Assassin attempted to clear his mind and only focus on that odd feeling that something wasn't adding up, but it was futile. His mind wandered off into the distance, leaving all thoughts of focused clarity in the dust.

His brain attempted to assess the damage that had been tolled towards his body, although he couldn't exactly remember just what had happened to him. It seemed as if everything was a distant dream that had occurred in the beginning stages of REM slumber, and his consciousness was being overtaken by drowsiness.

Whispers echoed from the distance, just barely reaching the Assassin's ears. He couldn't distinguish any of the words, but he knew it was the damned voice that had plucked him from his already abnormal life. He could hear the tone of the voice, and it sounded as if the owner was mocking him. No, not just him. All of them. All of the Assassins.

He strained to listen, but his attempts resulted in no avail. He just couldn't focus, and that just simply bothered him.

Suddenly, Desmond became aware of a weight that seemed to restrain him. It put a constant pressure on his torso, holding him down as if to prevent him from escaping. It bore down upon him, taking his breath from him, causing him to gasp.

And then all was clear.

He bolted upright, as did his ancestors. They all shared looks of bewilderment and wheezed for much needed breath.

Everything made sense to Desmond. Why he was there. Why his ancestors were there.

He was there for the sole purpose of synchronization. He was required—by whoever this entire thing was created—to become one with his ancestors once and for all for the sake of ending the Templar order.

But this had already been explained even before the first synchronizing event occurred. The voice had—although somewhat vaguely—explained that each of them was about to roll down the path of unity—or some shit like that. But what hadn't been explained that with every lesson, there was one of equal or greater importance matched with the inner soul of its learner.

The whole concept reminded Desmond of Newton's Third Law: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction—not that any of the other Assassins would even know just who in the _hell_ Isaac Newton was.

A sigh escaped Desmond's windpipe as he wiped his brow with the sleeve of his jacket—his jacket! He peered down at his apparel and noticed that he was covered in his normal clothing and not the Masyaf robes.

And once again, the odd feeling that someone or something undressed him crawled under his skin and made him shiver uneasily.

Quickly dismissing the thought of anyone stripping him naked, Desmond shared glances with his ancestors. "So," he began, breaking the silence, "what should we do now?"

Ezio shrugged his shoulders as he glanced around the seemingly endless void in which they resided. He squinted his eyes as if he saw something in the distance, and then seemed to quickly dismiss it. He removed the cowl from his head and freed his ponytail from underneath the fabric. Folding his legs in front of him, he rested his elbows on his lower thighs and sighed. "I'm at a loss," he said simply.

"What are you lost with?" the voice echoed throughout the Mainframe. "Are my methods confusing? Do you understand why you are here? Did my explanation not answer your questions?"

The Florentine shook his head. "Not exactly. You say that Desmond needs to harmonize with our actions and motives. If that is so, then why aren't we only teaching _him_ lessons? Why are we teaching _each other_ the lessons for Desmond's benefit?"

The mysterious voice chuckled. "But if you don't learn from your older and younger selves, then how will you successfully fill your duties as an Assassin? How else can you learn skills other than from someone that knows exactly how expectations of that skill must be met?"

Ezio's brow knitted as he allowed all of this to soak into his mind. He exchanged glances with Desmond, who was also pondering it all.

"But," Desmond began, the gears in his mind whirring, "if I'm supposed to learn this for synchronization, then why wasn't all of this brought up _before_ I experienced Altaïr's life? Why am I learning this in the middle of Connor's? The supposed end of the world is nearing, and I need to stop the Templars from taking advantage of the situation. There has to be another reason other than synchronization!"

The voice was silent for a moment before it spoke. "You are right. There is another reason, but you must figure that out by yourself. There is another reason for each of you to be here, and it is all the same reason. You may not realize the true meaning of my actions by bringing you all here, but in time, you will understand. And all of you will, hopefully, be thanking me for it. Especially you, Desmond."

Desmond arched his brow. How would he be thanking this mysterious voice? Why would he be thanking it? What would it teach all of them? Why was it the same lesson and not individual ones? Wouldn't that be easier?

"Now," the voice began in a rather cheery fashion, "let's go over what you have all learned, shall we?

"Connor, you are now a man! You have successfully learned how to fuck a woman with ease, all due to your mentor, Ezio. You have learned that your best approach to a woman is to be her knight in shining armor, and you have also learned a very important side-lesson from being a knight in shining armor: The world always works two ways. You give, and you take. A man kills a robber, and the woman beds the man. It's a simple process, but you had been raised in your village that one must only give. You seemed to block out the 'taking' portion of the bargain, which can be the most potent way to take you down. Anyone could take advantage of your kind nature, which is definitely something that you must avoid as an Assassin.

"Altaïr, although you may not see it, you have accomplished something that the majority of your Masyaf Brotherhood has not. You have faced your blatant fear of the 'liquid abyss' that man must consume to survive. You can immerse yourself in it, take down any predator, and hide for a quick getaway! Your lesson did not end there, I'm afraid. No. You also had to deal with someone that actually knew something that you did not. You had to, essentially, endure the unrelenting behavior of a superior much like yourself. That is a lesson that all humans must learn in his or her life.

"Ezio, you jail hound. You undertook the path of drunken revelry and look where it took you! Straight to the slammer! You foolishly challenged guards while intoxicated, and you paid for it deeply. But, of course, you were paired with an ex-convict, weren't you? Connor had spent a little time in jail before, and he was able to be your mentor throughout the process. You obtained injuries, but you managed not to act in rage or revenge until time revealed itself. Patience is a valuable tool under the belt of any skillful Master Assassin, and you put forth the effort—unknowingly, of course—to obtain it. Connor would not announce the plan until the time was right, something to which you were seemingly not acclimated.

"And, last but not least, Desmond. You possessed the training of a decent Assassin, yet you decided to undergo guidance to hone your skills, did you not? Your mentor tested your skills in the art of climbing, surveying, and fighting. You performed exceedingly well for someone who hadn't used much of his training in nine years. You showed your mentor that you _had_ in fact been trained, and I do believe that he was somewhat impressed with your performance. Your mentor also tested you in the lost art of faithful leaping. No, I do not mean the actual Leap of Faith you performed from the top of the viewpoint. I am referring to the Leap of Faith you performed when you _trusted_ Altaïr. You trusted him with, well, your life. He could have killed you right then and there when he split your palm open. If he had sliced a _little_ deeper in your hand, he _easily_ could have popped veins and possibly an artery. After you fainted, he was the one that dressed your wound and brought you to Malik's bureau. You were forced to trust him with your life, and that is something that not everyone can do."

The Assassins all exchanged looks at each other as they all felt the presence of the voice evaporating for the moment, allowing all of their lessons from the first set of pairings to settle within them.

The modern-day Assassin threw a smirk at his Native ancestor. "It's about time that you got laid. I was half expecting that you were going to be more like Ezio and chase after anything with a skirt."

Connor narrowed his eyes at his descendant, the color of rose creeping up his neck.

Ezio cracked a smile, clapping his Native descendant on the shoulder. "He did well with a personal friend of mine. I am happy that he got to experience a night with her in _Firenze_."

Desmond arched a brow, completely awestruck. "Cristina or Caterina?"

Ezio's smile grew wider. "The former of the two."

The Native descendant shrugged Ezio's hand from him and cut his narrowed eyes at both descendant and ancestor, the obvious color of embarrassment painting his skin.

The modern descendant and Renaissance ancestor shared a devious grin as Altaïr merely watched the seemingly pointless scene unfold.

"This is how my descendants pass their time in crucial moments?" he asked to no one in particular. "Do you buffoons engage in conversation in this topic often whilst you are keeping the Templars at bay?"

"No, I do not," Connor snapped immediately, furrowing his brow. "I usually do not partake in such activity during pressing times."

"You can say_ that _again," Desmond muttered under his breath with a snort.

The Syrian eagle narrowed his eyes at his three descendants. "It truly is no wonder why in the world we were all plucked from our lives. You three _clearly_ need to learn a few things before facing Templars."

"Oh, and you don't?" Desmond countered. "Mr. I'm-Afraid-of-Water?"

Altaïr snorted. "At least I didn't fall for a _blood oath_."

The descendant threw his arms over his head, furrowing his brow. "How was I supposed to know that you medieval people didn't do shit like that?"

"Just be pleased that I didn't land us in _jail_," Altaïr sneered, cutting his eyes to the Italian.

The Italian clenched his jaw. "In _Firenze_ I was able to escape execution, thank you very much."

"But you were not under the British-Colonial justice system," Connor countered as his coloring appeared to return to its natural shade. "I, on the other hand, was almost hung for a conspiracy plot in which I held no part not long ago."

"I escaped a conspiracy plot while my father and brothers were hung under false accusations under orders of a Grand Master Templar!" Ezio defended, jabbing his index finger into the Native's chest as he rose to his feet. "I witnessed the fleeting breath of my family from a public crowd, for God's sake!"

"I would love for you to enjoy witnessing your only parent burning under rubble at the innocent age of _four_!" Connor roared, bolting to his feet. "My _mother_ was robbed from my life as a young boy, which is a horrible incident that no child should endure. I knew _nothing _of my father until _nine years later_!"

"_Enough_!" a voice boomed. The Syrian eagle apparently had his fill of the argument because he held a silencing finger as he quickly rose to his feet and stood in between his middle two descendants. "You two _honestly_ think your pathetic lives can even _compare_ to one of true tragedy?" He snorted in derision as he assessed the situation. "_I was born into the Brotherhood_, _unlike you two. _My mother's life expired during childbirth. During the First Crusades, my father was slaughtered in an attempt to save a fellow Assassin on the battlefield. That man, in turn, took his own life in front of my very eyes at the young age of _eleven_. As of today, the man's son despises me due to the doubt in his mind. He does not believe that his father took his life, and he claims that I speak false tongue."

The Italian and the Native shared glances and grimaced as Desmond slowly rose to his feet.

The modern Assassin rubbed the back of his neck. "I think you all need to calm down before we all fucking desynchronize or something," he broke the momentary silence. "This has gone _way_ out of hand, and I think that we just don't need to bring up much about our past."

Altaïr arched his brow. "Oh? Do you possess more tragedy in _your_ past than any of us?"

"No, not really," Desmond admitted with a sigh. "I thought that I had a pretty shitty life before the Templars abducted me. I was born into the Brotherhood like you, Altaïr. My parents are both alive at the moment, but they were always overprotective while I grew up. I lived in a secluded community, and we kids were always under surveillance. We couldn't do much in our spare time, which was rare because we always trained. We learned about the Assassins and the Templars, as any Assassin-in-training does. I honestly thought it was a load of bullshit. I mean, why the hell would anyone believe it? I figured it was just some bogeyman story to scare us to never run away or some shit like that.

"So what did I do? I ran. I ran to New York and lived there for nine years. Then, well, I was abducted by Abstergo and forced to help locate the Apple. I was shoved into the Animus and relived life through your eyes, Altaïr. Then Lucy—an Assassin—busted me out. She brought me to a warehouse where I relived through the first forty or so years of Ezio's life. Then we had to escape the warehouse because the Templars found us. We relocated to the Auditore Villa—"

"My family's villa?" Ezio interrupted. "You were there?"

Desmond nodded. "Yeah. Everywhere else was modernized, but the villa was dilapidated. We had to be careful when stepping outside at any and all times because Templars could easily track us. I then lived through your Roman days and watched you hide the Apple in the Coliseum. My group headed there," Desmond's voice began fading. He grimaced as his recollections began to near the pivoting point of his life. He snapped into focus. "We all went inside the Vault. Eventually, we all surrounded the Apple, and when I grabbed it…" He paused, recollecting the exact moment. "Juno, a First Civ, showed me the truth. She showed me that Lucy was a sleeper agent for Abstergo. She was a Templar in disguise. She was going to take the Apple and give it to Vidic.

"And I couldn't let that happen. I felt Juno overpower my will, as if I was under the influence of the Apple itself. She made me kill Lucy—well, not exactly. I knew that I couldn't let her have the Apple. The Templars would have been in control then. I couldn't let that happen…

"And then I knocked myself into a coma. I relive your travels in Constantinople, and I meet another one of your descendants. His name was Clay, and he was also the subject just before me. After I relived your life, I wake up in front of a First Civ temple, that's when I started reliving Connor's life. But now, I'm stuck with three of my ancestors in the Animus Mainframe," he concluded as he casted a glance to Altaïr. "And that's the 'tragedy' in my past. It doesn't match up or even compare to yours, but I think that my future's going to be worse than anything."

The three ancestors silently stood, staring at their youngest descendant.

Desmond could tell that they were all transfixed with his tale, although it wasn't a gut wrenching tale of pain and sorrow. They seemed to hold onto every word, allowing them to sink into their thick skulls.

Suddenly, a noise reverberated throughout the empty void of the Mainframe, startling the four Assassins.

It was the sound of clapping.

"And this is exactly why I brought you here," the mysterious voice announced, sounding as if he or she was utterly amazed by the tale. "I commend you, Desmond. I truly do. Your bravery exceeds even that of your ancestors for taking a giant Leap of Faith into the arms of Assassins and Templars alike." The voice seemed to talk through a smile—a genuine one at that. "You tale has truly brought the bond of the blood that your all possess closer. You are all closer to synchronization than you had been before you all returned to the Mainframe, and for that, I will tell you your next mentor and pupil sessions.

"Connor, you will learn your next lesson from Desmond. Altaïr, you will learn your next lesson from Ezio. Then, after those are completed, you will switch roles, just as before."

The Assassins once again traded glances with one another as they allowed the news to soak in. They all looked at their new partner and silently waited for sleep to take them under…

But the sleep never came. After a moment of standing in the middle of the endless void with perplexed expressions, the voice merely began softly chuckling.

"What? Are you waiting for something?" it asked.

"Aren't you supposed to knock us out or something?" Desmond inquired curiously.

The voice barked a laugh. "I didn't do that the first time! You stroked out!"

"_Stroked out_?" Ezio repeated. He knitted his brow in perplexity, then he cracked a devious grin. "That sounded rather…_risqué_."

The modern-day Assassin glanced at his Italian ancestor and shared a smaller version of his grin. "Yeah, it kinda did."

The voice groaned in frustration. "Okay, I should have seen _that_ in the works. Perhaps I should watch what I say so that you don't make an innuendo from it, hm?" It seemed to ponder a moment in thought before returning to the matter at hand. "Anyway, you four seemingly had strokes at the same time. Either that or desynchronization. I'm going with the latter of the two. Now that you are closer than before, I'm able to merely snap my fingers and _pop_ you'll be in your next locations."

_SNAP!_

And the four were gone without a trace in a rather anti-climactic fashion.

* * *

**And thus ends another chapter. I must say, this one was actually rather difficult to write. I was going for something a little more serious than this, but I didn't like how it turned out. Thus, I decided to make them discuss their pasts (in a rather weird way). At first, that scene wasn't even going to appear in the chapter, but my fingers decided to type whatever the hell they wanted and POP there it was. (And I must say, I do enjoy the set-up of it!)**

**But anywhoodles, if you have any comments/questions/concerns about this chapter or my story in general, leave a review or PM me. I appreciate all of the feedback that I receive and I warmly welcome it! ^.^**


	7. Blurred Lines

**A/N: Le chapterly advisory… **

**WARNING! THIS STORY CONTAINS STRONG HUMOROUS CONTENT THAT SHOULD BE READ IN A DISCREET LOCATION. IF YOU ARE IN THE SAME ROOM AS OTHER PEOPLE, AWAKE OR SLEEPING, YOU NEED TO MOVE AWAY FROM THE AREA IF AT ALL POSSIBLE. YOU MAY EXPERIENCE THE FOLLOWING BEFORE, DURING, AND AFTER READING THE CHAPTER: THE GIGGLES, SIDESPLITTING LAUGHTER, NAUSEA, VOMITING, PAINFUL GAS, EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA, HYPERVENTILATION, HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE, FEVER, AND/OR ABDOMINAL CRAMPS. **

**IF YOU ARE PREGNANT, YOU MAY MISCARRY. **

**PLEASE ASK YOUR DOCTOR IF YOUR HEART IS HEALTHY ENOUGH FOR SEX, I MEAN, READING THIS STORY.**

**Yes, I realize that this is a very late update. I apologize. I am a busy junior in high school with shit loads of homework, and recently… I've gotten back into the _Game of Thrones_ series by George R. R. Martin…. (With that being said…. I LOVE JON SNOW!) **

**ONWARD!**

* * *

Connor had never seen anything like it back in his world. It was the most magnificent scenery his eyes had ever beheld, and he never wanted to look away.

When Desmond had opened the door, he revealed the most extravagant view of New York the Native had ever seen. The skyscrapers kissed the skies gently as the clouds seemed to barely hover above the tops. The streets illuminated with a kaleidoscope of colors from strange steel carriages that were pulled by invisible horses that seemed to move at impressive speeds. Civilians that walked on the stone roads seemed to be the size of small insects from the view. The sunrise seemed to glow in the background, pulling the whole scene together.

And if there was anything that Connor had learned from Mr. Faulkner on the high seas, a pretty sunset—or sunrise for that matter—was an omen.

"Welcome to my fucking humble abode," Desmond griped as the he allowed Connor to pass him and shut the door behind him.

Connor glanced around the apartment in awe as strange lights beamed from the ceiling. He arched his brow at the mysterious ceiling flames, glancing at his descendant. "How are the flames being contained? That seems very dangerous."

Desmond merely cracked a smile. "It's called _electricity_, dude. Calm your tits; it's not that fantastic."

"But I am not a woman," Connor objected, perplexed by the modern saying.

The descendant rolled his eyes and chuckled as he clapped his ancestor on the shoulder. "It's just a saying, dude. Don't take it so literally. Just calm down and relax. This isn't your first time in New York, so just cool it."

Connor's muscles seemed to respond immediately. Relax. Was that possible? Was he able to simply relax?

He gingerly sat on the sofa that was in the front room and glanced about the apartment, his eyes immediately falling to the sight of a peculiar, flat box that was mounted to the wall. It was black and it seemed to be some sort of window, but it didn't allow him to see outside.

Suddenly, the box came to life, depicting people dribbling a ball across a wooden floor and attempting to put it in some sort of bottomless basket.

Connor jumped back in shock, his eyes transfixed onto the glass, watching the people jump as if they were Assassins. "What is this?" he asked, his stare remaining on the screen.

"It's called ESPN. It's a sports network on TV," Desmond replied as he grabbed a two small black boxes from the table in front of Connor and plopped next to his ancestor, kicking back in a reclining position. "The TV allows you to watch different shows and movies when you're bored. It's about the only thing around for any type of entertainment that's worth any money." He casted his ancestor a glance before laughing. "They're playing a game called _basketball_. It's kinda stupid, really. I only watch ESPN to get the scores from the baseball games. Go St. Louis Cardinals," he added as he thrust his fist in the air, John Bender style—not that Connor knew who the hell that was.

Connor tore his gaze from the screen and arched his brow. "Birds play sports?"

"No, that's just a team name," the descendant replied matter-of-factly. "Don't worry about the specifics of this stuff. Just roll with it," he advised as he pointed one of the black boxes at the screen, allowing some sort of control menu pop up. He entered in a number and waited a moment before selecting a bar with the title _The Patriot_.

The screen popped to a shot of a battlefield with Redcoats on one side and patriots on another.

Connor watched with interest as a man fired a cannon, and the next thing he saw, he cringed. The cannonball had taken a man's head clean off his shoulders! "That man just died!" he exclaimed frantically.

Desmond merely laughed as he held the other black box in his hand, peering at his ancestor. "Dude," he said with a smile, "it's just a movie. It's not real. That's just a character in a costume, and the actor's not actually dead. _He's acting_. It's called _special effects_."

"So, this is not actually during the Revolution?"

Desmond shook his head. "No, this was not filmed _in_ 1776. The movie's storyline is _based_ on the American Revolution, but there weren't such things as cameras to film it back then."

Connor tilted his head in thought as he heard and watched the sights and sounds of war. He watched as gunfire volleyed between the two sides, and it slightly agitated him. "Those men do not understand the dangers of the Revolution. They do not understand what it is to be on the battlefield with Redcoats firing rounds at you in an attempt to rob you of your life."

Desmond arched his brow as he listened to Connor's spoken inner dialogue, droning it out as he went. He tapped the front of the black box as Connor glanced at him.

It was another little TV! A palm-sized TV!

"Oh, that's interesting," Desmond muttered to himself as he stared at the little screen, giving it another tap. He wiped his hand down his face as he looked at his ancestor. "Apparently, since the Animus Mainframe can go to any location and date that is in my memory, today is March 13, 2012. That was—well, apparently is—my last birthday before Abstergo took me. Looks like I'm twenty-five all over again."

The Native knitted his brow as he dared to glance at his clothing. A black, cotton long-sleeved shirt covered his torso and arms and a pair of thick, denim jeans hung on his hips. He wore odd black shoes that were unlike anything he had seen. They were dark gray with a white checkmark on the sides, and they seemed to be held together by strings on the tops. "In what am I dressed?" he inquired with the utmost perplexity.

"Normal clothes for this time period. I was in robes similar to Altaïr's when I was in his time…" His voice trailed off, as if attempting to figure something out.

And then Desmond smacked himself in the forehead. "Of course!" he exclaimed. "_That's_ why! Duh!" Muting the movie, he began laughing as he sprang to his feet and hustled into the kitchen. He brought out a short, square bottle and two small glasses and slammed them on the table. "I know what's going to happen!" he cried out with a huge grin as he poured the amber liquid from the bottle into the glasses, filling them to the brim. He handed Connor the first glass and filled the second one.

Connor took it and sniffed the liquid, the alcohol stinging his nose. "What is it?" he inquired curiously.

"Jack Daniels whiskey," Desmond replied, downing his shot and slamming his glass on the table. "You're helping me celebrate my birthday. After we do a little partying here, we're gonna freshen up and hit the town. I'm taking you to a public place, which is no doubt why there was a modern-day clothing change for you. I think that the Animus changes the one who doesn't belong if there's going to be a chance of the public seeing them," he explained as his ancestor merely looked at him. "Drink."

The wolf arched his brow as he held the glass to his lips and tilted his head back, allowing the liquid to travel from the glass to his stomach. The fire scorched his throat, which caused him to cough and his eyes to water. He immediately felt the warmth in the base of his throat that extended to the pit of his stomach, and his eyes widened as he set the shot glass on the table.

"Welcome to the modern era," Desmond cheered, pouring two more shots. "And happy fucking birthday to me, eh?"

Connor nodded. "Happy birthday," he agreed with a rasp, wrapping his fingers around his glass and swallowed his second shot. Slamming the glass on the table, he slightly smiled as his inhibitions began to sway like a gentle breeze. He seemed to melt into the couch as his muscles completely relaxed.

"I see Jack's doing his job well," Desmond remarked as he rose to his feet slowly and carefully. He crossed the floor to a bookshelf and freed a large book. He held the book preciously as he returned to the couch, lifting the front cover of the book.

The ancestor knitted his brow as he noticed that what his descendant opened was not a book but a _box_ disguised as a book. He watched as Desmond pulled out a petite, clear contraption that held some sort of liquid. His descendant then pulled out two objects that seemed to be slim cigars crudely wrapped in white paper. Desmond put one between his own lips and flicked the contraption, a flame appearing from the metal opening. After a moment, Desmond took a long drag from the cigar and held his breath, exhaling slowly.

Before Connor could ask what the man was doing, he smelled the smoke. He knew that it wasn't a typical cigar, but he didn't know exactly what it was. "What is it?"

Desmond smiled, lighting the second "cigar" on fire at one end and handing it carefully to his ancestor. "Just take a hit from it. Don't let it go until after a little while. _Enjoy it._ _Savor it._"

The Native took the lit object and placed it between his lips, slowly inhaling the smoke. The vapors irritated the back of his throat, making him hack a lung. His eyes watered from the force of the rapid exhalation of air and peered at his descendant. "What on earth is this?" he rasped between choking.

The modern-day Assassin smirked. "Can't hold your smoke, huh?" he questioned as he took a small drag. Exhaling in Connor's face, he chuckled. "This blunt right here, my friend," he began with a gesture to the cigar in between his index finger and thumb, "is an old friend of mine. I've known Mary Jane for a while now, and she always helps after a long, hard day." He kicked his feet up on the coffee table, being careful not to knock over the glasses or the bottle. "Mary Jane and Jack Daniels are the best fucking couple in the universe," he remarked as he rolled his head in his ancestor's direction. "Try to overcome the initial fight that she gives you. She'll succumb to your taste if you'll let her."

The wolf eyed the blunt—why on the world was it called a _blunt_, anyway?—and sighed. He placed it between his lips once more and slowly inhaled, allowing the smoke to fill his lungs with ease. The smoke swirled inside him for a moment before he slowly exhaled, astonished how his mind seemed to slowly ease by the passing moment.

And so the ancestor and descendant sat in silence, enjoying a smoke and another two shots of Jack.

A strong buzz flowing throughout Connor's being, he felt the effects of the smoke take effect. He seemed to feel completely relaxed, a feeling that he had never experienced before. His vision seemed to blur everything together, and he couldn't focus on one single conversation—or thought for that matter.

Desmond lazily grabbed the small black box that Connor had convinced himself that it was a palm-sized TV and tapped the screen. He gasped when he saw the time that was displayed on the screen. "Dayum," he drawled, tapping Connor's arm, causing him to look up. "D-_dude_," Desmond groaned, pointing at the numbers. "I-it's nine o-fucking' clock in the morning!" He snorted, wiping his hand down his face sloppily. "Ya know what that meansh?" he slurred, reminding Connor vaguely of that stupid Italian when he was drunk off ale—whatever his name was.

"No," the Native replied. "What doesh it mean?"

His descendant beamed. "Time to _munch_! I'm _shtarving_, man!" He rose to his feet, wobbling. He tapped the screen on the device and held it to his ear. "Hey, Luigi!" he exclaimed. "Thish ish Dezzz," he slurred. "Bring me six pizzash. Yeah, extra _everything_. We're _shtarving_!" He promptly tapped the screen once more, putting the device in his back pocket. He glanced at Connor. "Gotta wait a few minutesh, man. Luigi gonna fix ush _up_!"

Within thirty minutes or less, there was a knock at the door. Desmond stumbled towards the door, practically colliding into it as he opened it. With a grin, he motioned for the man, who Connor figured was Luigi, to set six boxes on the table in front of the couch. Desmond scrambled to get out his wallet from his pocket and dropped a wad of cash in the man's hands.

"Keep the change," Desmond instructed as he ushered the man from the apartment and returned to the couch, taking the first pizza box from the stack and tossed into Connor's lap. He then grabbed the second box and set it into his own lap.

And then they scarfed down their pizzas as if they hadn't eaten in days.

(Insert imaginary time-lapse)

Connor felt like shit. He couldn't move. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He felt completely helpless, and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

He attempted to stand up, but the room spun and shoved him back in his place on the couch. His stomach churned, and he had the feeling that Jack Daniels and Papa John were going to resurrect from the grave. He dug his fingers into the armrest that was to his right as he slowly turned his head left in the direction of his descendant.

Desmond seemed to be unconscious, his body draped over the other armrest. Connor slightly leaned forward and assessed the bile that was splattered across the floor. He could tell that it had been expelled within the past hour, and he was thankful that Desmond hadn't been reclining with his head tilted backwards like he himself had been.

The Native inhaled deeply as he slowly returned to his center of balance…

And much to his dismay, Jack and John reappeared before him, blanketing his legs and feet in their glorious presence.

Wiping the bile from his lips with his sleeve, Connor sighed in relief. He felt much better, even though he was now covered in his own sickness.

His head pounded, and he knew _exactly_ how Ezio—Aha! That was his name!—had felt after his own drunken escapade. He silently vowed that he would never drink more than he could handle again, which he didn't exactly have to worry about because Jack Daniels had yet to make a cameo in his any of the taverns to which he went.

"You lost it, too?" a voice beside him whispered though what Connor thought was a weak smile.

"Yes," he answered, closing his eyes and allowing his head to rest on the back of the couch. "I am not doing this again, Desmond."

The descendant laughed meekly as he slowly lifted himself from the armrest and copied his ancestor's position. "I don't blame you, honestly. I've forgotten how shitty it is a few after shots, weed, and food. Your body brings it all back up, and you shower yourself in it."

"Speaking of rain showers," Connor whispered, peeping one eye open as he felt his clothing being weighed down, "I need to clean myself."

Desmond chuckled lightly. "Now? Can't you just stay there for a few more hours?"

"No."

His descendant shifted and pulled out his device that had summoned the pizza and tapped the screen. "Holy shit," he whispered. "It's seven thirty." He slowly rose to his feet and assessed the damage done to his apartment. "I've seen worse than puke covering my floor," he muttered as he maintained his balance. He casted a look at his ancestor and slowly motioned for him to stand. "Come on. I'll show you how the shower works."

Connor groaned as he gripped the couch to support him as he carefully rose to his feet, gaining his footing. He followed his descendant down a hallway and into a bedroom.

Desmond walked to a closet where he grabbed some clothing that hung on odd-looking triangles and threw them on the bed. He then opened a dresser, pulled out various undergarments, and threw them on the bed. "Pick out anything you want. I don't care. We should be about the same size. You're broader in the shoulders, but other than that you'll be fine in my clothes."

Connor sifted through the clothes, pulling out a charcoal long sleeved shirt, jeans, and undergarments.

Desmond picked out his outfit, ushered his ancestor to the bathroom, and explained meticulously how to use a shower. After explaining the workings of indoor plumbing, which was a complete miracle to Connor, Desmond sighed. "I trust you know how to use soap?"

Connor nodded, thankful that there was at least _one_ thing in this time period that he was familiar with.

"Okay, just don't use all the hot water," Desmond said as he exited the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Connor set the clean clothing down on the edge of the sink. Peeling off the filthy clothing, he stepped into the shower, turning on the hot tap, instantly feeling the scalding water burn his skin. He adjusted the water temperature—just how Desmond showed him—and scrubbed himself clean from head to toe.

Stepping out, he dried himself off and donned the clean clothes. As he exited the bathroom, steam escaped around him and followed him to the main room of the apartment, where he found Desmond finishing the cleaning of the floor.

His descendant looked up. "Done already?"

The wolf nodded, folding his arms across his chest. "Yes, thank you."

Desmond made a gesture of acknowledgement as he cleaned up the floor. He put away the bucket in which strangely colored water settled and vanished into the bathroom to shower.

Connor crossed the room to look out the window. The view from the apartment astonished him. Everything looked so foreign to him, and he wanted to be amongst its people. He could travel the streets for hours and still not comprehend even a quarter of its wonders. The lives of the streets seemed to be absolutely enchanting, and he hoped that Desmond was going to take him amongst it all.

Connor had been so transfixed by the magnificent view of the city that he didn't know how long Desmond had been standing there beside him before he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Enjoy the view?" the modern-day man asked, a strange scent rolling off him.

"Yes, very much so," Connor replied. He sniffed the air for a moment and cocked his brow. "What is that smell?"

"Cologne," he replied as he whipped out a small bottle, pointing it at his ancestor. "Close your eyes. It burns," he instructed as he began misting the other in the fragrance.

Before long, Connor noticed that the scent covering him was strangely familiar. It smelled of… a forest? How in the world can people of this era capture the scent of a forest inside a small, glass bottle?

"Okay," Desmond concluded, putting the bottle on the table. "You ready to hit the town?"

"I suppose."

(Insert magical time lapse)

The music reverberated throughout the dimly lit room, and it started to give Connor a headache.

He sat on the edge of a bar stool next to his descendant, slowly sipping on a mug of beer—that seemed to be what he was accustomed to in the taverns he occasionally visited, so he knew his limit. He glanced about the room, seeing people from all walks of life dancing in the center on a lit floor. He turned away as a pair of young women noticed his gawking.

And much to his dismay, he then heard the small sound of giggling and heeled footsteps heading in the Assassins' direction.

A feathered touch travelled from the back of his neck and down the center of his spine, sending chills throughout his body. The scent of roses wafted behind him, and he felt the presence of one of the girls.

Glancing to his descendant, he noticed that Desmond was receiving attention from the second girl in a similar manner.

"Hey, cutie," the rose-smelling girl whispered in his ear. She slid into the bar stool beside him, placed her hand gingerly on his forearm, and smiled at him with a twinkle in her eye.

He glanced at the girl and inclined his head. "Hello."

"I'm Jen," she introduced and then pointed at the girl that was occupying Desmond's complete and undivided attention. "And that's Val."

"I am Connor; that is Desmond," he replied rather timidly as his muscles tensed. He couldn't place it, but something threw him off about this girl. She seemed familiar, but he couldn't recall where he had possibly could have seen her.

The brunette lightly giggled as she glanced at her friend. "Hey, Val!" she called out, snapping her fingers.

The blonde looked up as she was draping her arms around the modern-day Assassin. "Can't you see that I'm busy with this sexy beast?"

Jen snorted. "Yeah, I can, and I presume that it's the same as I'm with this cutie, right?" Receiving a nod from the other girl, she wrapped her arms around him as she rested her chin in the crook of his elbow. "I can tell this one's a little shy but just needs a little push. What about yours?"

Val grinned devilishly as she inhaled Desmond's neck. She pondered for a moment before she slightly wiggled her eyebrows. "He's a partier, that's for sure! I think he's celebrating something today." She gave him a once-over and winked. "Today's his… birthday. He's a birthday boy."

"Ooh," Jen replied, the twinkle in her eye gleaming. She returned her attention to Connor. "Tell me something. Are you two related? You look like you do."

Before he could answer, Desmond interrupted Connor's train of thought.

"He's a relative on my dad's side. The relation's a bit distant, but he's more family than most."

Distant relation was spot on. About 200 years distant.

Jen and Val shared a grin.

Val nudged Desmond's side. "So do ya wanna get out of here?" Her voice dropped a few octaves to seduction. "I'll give you the best birthday present you've received all day; that's a promise," she added with a wink.

Desmond glanced at Connor, practically giving him a pleading look. He seemed to mentally scream and beg his ancestor for this birthday opportunity. It was his second shot at his twenty-fifth birthday before the Templars took him, and both of them knew it.

The ancestor hesitated as he timidly glanced at the rose-scented girl. She pouted her bottom lip, as if siding with the descendant. Her cerulean eyes seemed to beg him for his company. She blinked a couple of times in a row as she extended her bottom lip out further.

Tearing his gaze from the pleading girl, he returned to the pleading descendant, who seemed to possess the identical expression. Connor rolled his eyes slightly.

"It is _your_ birthday, Desmond," he replied. "You are the one to plan the festivities, not I."

And with that response, Desmond bolted to his feet, wrapping his arm around Val with a smile. "Well, when you put it like that…" He motioned for Connor to follow as he led the girl towards the exit.

"C'mon," Jen purred as she slid down from her stool. She lightly tugged on his arm and led him after the other couple, finding them outside.

The four travelled from the nightclub to Desmond's thankfully-clean apartment.

Val led Desmond directly into the bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind her.

And that left Connor to his own devices with Jen, who pulled him down to the couch.

He mentally prepared himself for the inevitable events to come. He had done this before—only once, though. At least he'd had experience below the belt—pun intended—before tonight. He wasn't panicking or anything like he had when that _other_ night took place—although he didn't show it.

The girl merely smiled as she peeled off his shirt, gasping as she observed his rippled torso. She traced the defining lines upon his chest and abdomen. "Oh, God," she quietly whispered to no one in particular. The corners of her lips curved upwards, linking her hands around his neck as she brushed her lips across his.

He slightly smiled as the brush turned into a kiss and then melted into another. He wrapped his arms around the girl's waist and pulled her closer as she straddled his hips. He felt her fingers entangle themselves in his ebony locks as he constricted one arm around her small waist, seemingly pulling her into his torso. His other hand trailed up her back, sending chills across her skin. She broke the kiss with a giggle and peered into his eyes.

And in that instant, he knew _exactly_ of whom she reminded him—not that Ezio would be happy about it.

Cristina.

Now, he wasn't sure if that was merely coincidence or if it was actually Cristina's descendant, but honestly…

He didn't care.

* * *

**A/N: Hmmm… Connor gets lucky twice within the first half of this entire story? What? Teehee! Maybe he's been asking me for too much, no? And why is it always Cristina? I haven't the slightest idea... **

**I swear, I get WAAAY into writing some of these, and I can actually hear some of the things that I make them say! I can honestly hear Connor say, "It is _your_ birthday, Desmond. You are the one to plan the festivities, not I."**

**Is that a bad thing, or is that just a sign that I'm actually a half-ass decent writer? **

**I hope you liked the chapter! Please give me some feedback! :D **


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